


Always the Spoils

by weneedtotalkaboutsherlock (Paradoxe1914)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternative Universe - Pirates, Boats and Ships, Breathplay, Canon-Typical Violence, Captain John Watson, Everything is consensual, Happy Ending, Jealous John, John is a Bit Not Good, M/M, Minor Character Death, Orgy, PWP, Pirates, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Prostitute Sherlock, Rough Sex, Sherlock Holmes is a Bit Not Good, Sherlock has sex with a lot of people in this one, Sherlock is a Brat, They all get better though, Threesome, but will end up with John
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-19
Updated: 2019-11-14
Packaged: 2020-10-24 05:55:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 34,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20701034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paradoxe1914/pseuds/weneedtotalkaboutsherlock
Summary: A captive Sherlock gets rescued by Captain John Watson and his crew. Chaos follows, and John has to step in to show who's the true captain of The Fusilier.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Strangely enough, the premise of this fic came to me in a dream. It was a very nice dream.  
This has not been betaed - I wrote it in the span of a few hours, I'm sorry for any mistakes still in there.  
Big thanks to nautilicious for helping me with the title! It was entirely her idea! 
> 
> TW for rough sex. Everyone is consenting to everything that happens, but John is surprised with a situation that he thinks at first to have iffy consent (but it's not the case).  
Please keep in mind that Sherlock has sex with multiple male characters here, so if you want him to be only with John, this is probably not for you!

_Always the spoils, never the treasure_

In the end, the enemy crew had surrendered without much trouble, and the captive had been retrieved.

Not that John had stirred The Fusilier after them for that purpose, but what he came to get, he did not find. The captive would have to do for now, not that he is entirely sure why he was captured in the first place. They had found him naked and freezing in the cells in the bottom of The Valiant's hull, gagged and tied up too tight John could see the red and white lines where the blood had accumulated and stopped.

He had never been a fan of torture, or captives, for that matter, and had ordered his crew to take the man on board. The vessel was circulating with the Crown's insignia on their flags, and in John's personal beliefs, any enemy of his enemy is his friend.

Now, back on The Fusilier, he watches Lestrade stir her back towards Nassau's general direction. It will take a week and then some, depending on the winds. John's hand contracts on the wooden rails in front of him. A two-week trip entirely wasted. The information that was given to him had been wrong, evidently. The Valiant did not have any of the cargo that had been promised to him, and in the meantime, other, also important ships had slipped by.

The ever-knowing Lestrade throws him a look, just as he straightens the helm. "We can't get them all, Captain," Lestrade says. "I wish we could, but we can't."

John waves a hand, as if to signify that it's not so important to him after all. Their monthly missions have helped countless people regain freedom. If this one has saved only one man, well, it was one man freed after all. Better than nothing.

"Keep her going," John tells him. "I'm going to check on our guest."

Lestrade nods, and John leaves him alone, tucking his head to the side as he descends below deck through the narrow stairs. He had checked the captive man for any injuries that needed immediate attention, and when he had not found any, he asked his men to take the barely conscious man back to their quarters and feed him whatever they could find that might get some fat back around that belly.

His thoughts somewhere else, John can't help but frown when he hears a moan, just before he pushes the door open.

_What the hell_ is the first thought that comes to him when he sees their guest on all-fours, still naked, his arse raised and plowed by two of Dimmock's fingers, whilst Trevor is feeding him his cock down his throat.

Well, he did not mean it like _that_.

John stares, befuddled, actively trying not to get aroused by the scene in front of him. It's— his men are not supposed to take personal pleasure out of their captives, and definitely not out of their guests. John had always been clear about what is acceptable or not, and any non-consensual action taking place on his ship is severely punished. His crew already has the reputation for being somewhat different, a safe heaven for men who enjoy cock, and women who prefer breasts and cunts, along with those who go for both. With that much choice around, there has never been a problem about crew members satisfying their needs in the most monstrous way. Not until…

"What the fuck is going on, here?" John barks. If both of his crew members turn their heads (not _quite_ stopping their fucking), the man in the middle does not halt his ministrations. Is that the beginning of a smile stretching those lips, wrapped around that cock?

"He started it!" Dimmock yelps, his fingers stilling. Trevor only smiles, his hand petting the man's dark curls in a nearly affectionate way.

The man groans, and bucks his hips back, actively fucking himself on Dimmock's hand. John's cock twitches in his trousers, just as a gasp comes from the shadows. There, he distinguishes Janine, a hand down her trousers, another up her shirt, as she rocks on the crate she is sitting on. His eyes finally focus on five or six of his crew members, all rather enjoy the scene happening in front of them.

"What do you mean, he _started_ it?"

The man groans again, nearly sitting up on Dimmock's hand, too sheepish to keep on stimulating his needy partner. Finally, he lets go of Trevor's cock, who snaps his lips together, displeased.

The guest glances above his shoulder, and as he witnesses Dimmock's lost interest, stands up and pushes his body against Trevor's. "Your men were fighting, _Captain_," he says, his voice low and rough from the sucking, "over whom had incapacitated the most men on The Valiant."

He pushes Trevor on the nearest chair, letting him sit down first, long white fingers holding the high collar of his coat. John notices that the man is sporting a considerable erection, his cock a painful purple at the tip, leaking already over Trevor's shirt as he swiftly straddles his lap. He tries not to gape.

"Forehead Scar then tells Blond Curls that Blond Curls always thinks he's the best, ah—" the man pauses, gasping, as Trevor (or Blond Curls, John guesses) slips two of his fingers in the man's already slick hole, as easily as if it were a cunt. "Always getting the woman, or the lad, always killing the biggest number of villains," the man continues, riding Trevor's lap as Trevor latches on his throat, sucking a bruise on the white, snowy skin. John tries to avoid his gaze, not to see, not to think of Trevor in that particular setting… "They threw a punch or— two at each other, and I told them if they'd rather make a competition out of ah— it, we could make it more interesting. Although I initially believed, and said so, that Forehead Scar would win, I see that— oh, come on," he ushers Trevor, his cock bobbing between the two of them. "First one to make me— come with his fingers, gets to fuck me."

"Are you a prostitute?" John asks, gaping, because he cannot think of anything else right now. Is he really having a conversation with a man in the throes of passion?

"You flatter me," the man answers, petulant, throwing his arms around Trevor's shoulders for better leverage. "Something like that, yes. But right now, I'm not anything but desperate, it's been so long. And your crew rather lack the spirit. 'Thought they'd know better under _your_ command."

John's anger flares in his chest. Has the man convinced his crew into an orgy simply by his acerbic words? If he was surprised at first, he can see now how he achieved that feat.

"Have you done this before?" the whore asks Trevor, eyebrows raised. "Do you even know how to please a man? You've been missing my spot since we started."

"Fuck you," Trevor bites back, plunging his fingers even harder into his partner, who only laughs.

"I dared to hope so, I'm still painfully hard— but you're not able to make me come, which says a lot, giving my current state." He throws a look at John. "I can see why you like this one. Feisty. I bet he has a huge cock, but you wouldn't know, would you?"

That's it. That's fucking it. John steps forward, rage coiling in his guts. He takes a handful of that dark hair and yanks back.

The man yelps, falling off Trevor's lap but catches himself at the last minute, as John twists his right arm in his back. With that leverage, he shoves the man's chest on the nearest surface, making the forgotten bowl of soup tremble and spill over the wooden table. With one foot, he pushes the whore's ankle to spread his legs. Without thinking, he rubs his clothed erection against the bare arse offered to him.

The man arches his back, pressing against John. Gagging for it.

He's about to raise his head when John tugs on his hair again, plastering his cheek against the wood. "I'm the captain here, and no one, not even guests, have the right to disrespect _me_ in that way."

"And what exactly are you going to do?" he asks, with a smile.

"First," John says, leaning over the body, "I'm going to fuck that attitude right out of you. No teasing, no games, I don't fucking need to prove myself to you."

The man's chuckle transforms into a moan when John slaps his arse. "That'll teach you to mess with my crew," he grits out, slightly surprised that this effusion of what he considers to be violence is not making the whore any less keen to be fucked by a stranger. "But I'm going to be fair, since this is your living. How much for your hole?" he asks, with a pinch of skin, just where thigh meets arse.

"Free of charge if I enjoy it enough. Do show them how it's done, Captain."

That's enough. John unbuckles his trousers, leaving the belt hanging on both sides, and unlaces in quick, hurried tugs. For the first time since his attention had been captured by the man between his legs, he realises that the room is entirely silent as his crew is watching, rapt. For a captain that has always been particularly stoic, they seem both surprised and curious at such a display. John does not even question the morality of fucking a prostitute — a guest, technically — in front of his men. The whore has taken a rise out of him, and is going to pay the price.

His cock springs out of his trousers, which raises a few gasps around the room. Someone's going to be sore tomorrow, he thinks with a smile. He gives himself two, needless, quick tugs, and just before he can proceed, drags the pad of his thumb around the whore's fluttering hole, down the soft milky skin until he reaches his balls, looking painfully tight.

"Are you going to fuck me, or what?" the man whines, but there's an edge to his words now, which makes John smiles.

He'd like to tease him even longer, just to see how much he can take after being passed around his men like a bottle of rum, but he can barely contain himself any longer.

He takes his cock in hand, and pushes in.

"Ohhh— _hello_, Captain. I'm Sherlock, by the way. I must apologise for the quip about Blond Curl's cock, when yours is clearly—"

John slams his hips to the man's— _Sherlock'_s arse, effectively shutting him up for the first time. He looks down to the body spread under him, travels his hands along the arch of his back, kneads the two plush cheeks, uncovering the bit where his cock is plunging into Sherlock's hole. He sets a harsh rhythm, not letting Sherlock's body any time to accommodate him, not he seems to mind — John has visited the bordels at Nassau a few times, but Sherlock is the loudest whore he's ever been with, gasping with each thrust, moaning here and there, bucking back, fingernails gritting at the table. It doesn't even look like he's faking it. And his hands— dear God, his hands, just like his body, look, for the lack of a better word, virgin. John knows bodies. John knows tanned bodies, bruised bodies, scarred bodies, but apart from the hardship of a few days spent in captivity, Sherlock does not bear any marks of a life fully lived. Maybe he's a careful prostitute, but the silly idea that Sherlock looks like a man out of those noble English families sticks in his mind. Not that he cares at all. A hole's a hole. But _fuck_, this man is gorgeous.

He throws his head back, letting go of Sherlock's arms and grasping him by the hips as to fuck him harder. He closes his eyes for a second, letting his ears register the sounds around him. It seems like his crew's surprised has faded into arousal, and he can hear the ragged breathing, the quick tug and twist of Trevor's hand over his spit-slicked cock. Over the sound of his own fucking, there's the soft skin-to-skin slapping sound in one corner of the room, as Billy and Archie indulge in one another, standing up. On her crate, Janine has divested of her trousers, and a dark figure John cannot make out is kneeling in front of her, eating her out. The temperature in the room has doubled, tripled.

John looks down, the sounds drowning under his own panting, the buckle of his belt leaving a red-blue mark on Sherlock's butt cheek as it keeps on hitting him in the same place. His sweaty hands slide over Sherlock's milky skin, until he grabs his hair again, making his shoulders and chest rise off the table, better leverage to ram into him, into that sweet spot he knows he's getting on every thrust, again, and again, and again, and again…

… until he lets go, Sherlock's body hitting the table as he flutters around John, coming without a sound, as if committing him to a secret imperceptible by anyone else in the room. John wants to ask, John wants to know if he's good to go on, but since Sherlock does not raise any issue, he keeps on fucking until his balls draw tight and buries himself to the hilt, coming with a shout.

Panting, John leans his forehead against Sherlock's shoulder. He wants to stay just a bit longer, to keep his cock where it's soft and warm and comfortable just for a moment, not to break that connection right away, not to return to a reality in which he is undesired by all but for a whore whose job is to please men like him. He could stay like that forever, a human heartbeat against his own chest, but reality does catch up with him as he inevitably softens and slips out.

He throws a look around — he guesses that they have finished last, but things are not at all awkward, for everyone seems to be in somebody else's arms, or slumped over a hammock, satisfied and content.

John swiftly stuffs himself back in his trousers, and just as he is about to ask Sherlock is he's fine, the naked body slips off the table like a limp cloth, smearing strands of come over the dark wood, and John catches him by the arms at the last second.

"Are you—" he starts, panicked. Has he killed him? Jesus, maybe the man had internal bleeding that he missed from his earlier check-up, something that made his heart rupture during their fucking. John presses two fingers to the pale neck, relieved to find a rather strong heartbeat. He gathers Sherlock in his arms, wondering if he had finished in an unconscious body, having been too rough with him (he's never been this aggressive before, he really doesn't know what took over him, just now), but the softest exhale and long fingers fisting themselves into the front of his shirt bring him to another conclusion: the man has simply fallen asleep.

Exhausted, probably, from being captive for days, and fucked out of his mind.

John licks his lips, his eyes on Sherlock's face, his features softened into something nearly sweet, nearly heart-wrenching. John thumbs the part where Sherlock's lip has split, an injury previously sustained on The Valiant, before he reminds himself. The man is not his lover. He's a prostitute, who's been alone too long and found comfort into another's presence. Besides, whoever he may look like when sleeping, he's an utter brat when conscious. John understands now why his enemies had gagged him in the cell. Sherlock could probably talk his way out of any prison if he only wished to.

"He needs to be watched over," he explains himself, to no one in particular, and no one is listening to him anyway.

Gently, he takes Sherlock by the shoulders and the knees, and carries him to his own cabin, at the back of the ship.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I won't put it in the notes in the future, but please keep in mind that a lot of rough sex features in this fic. Everyone is consenting, no one gets seriously hurt.

Moist lips against his thigh.

A smile forms on John's lips, as he lazily stretches his back. He can hear the slow rumble of the sea, just outside the small cottage, just as he can feel the warm body between his legs, the first rays of sunshine warming his skin. The lips trail a path up and down his thigh, until a nose brushes the blondish hair of his groin, where he is not entirely soft. Mary, unlike most women he's been with, has often indulged him in this private pleasure, one that he reciprocated as often as he could. But right now, he rather wants her to come up and lie against him, to feel her soft breasts against his chest, to slip his fingers where she's warm and inviting, to make love to her like he has done so countless times in the past, before— before— before—

The rake of stubble on his lower belly.

His eyes shut open, a gasp on his lips. He looks down, his heart bouncing in his chest at the possibility of witnessing once more, one last time, Mary's hazel eyes and dark skin, the pink of her tongue as she used to stick it between her lips, when concentrating.

Instead, he sees a head of brown curls, muscled shoulders of a milky white.

John throws his head back on the pillow, just as the man between his legs licks a long stripe up his still-interested cock. Everything that has happened yesterday flows back into his head.

"Bloody hell," he curses himself, biting on the back of his hand, for having believed that the body in his bed was Mary, that she was, still, somehow, on this Earth, in his life.

How much longer is he going to delude himself?

"I believe it would be polite to ask you if I can proceed," the low rumble of Sherlock's voice tickles his ears.

For an answer, John blindly grabs a handful of curls, and directs Sherlock towards his cock, who obligingly takes it.

John curses again. It's been so damn long. He stares at the rocking ceiling of his cabin as he feels Sherlock's velvety tongue working his cock, as he starts bobbing his head, taking more and more every time he pushes down. It's been _too_ damn long.

He closes his eyes, his hand following Sherlock's head, and the sudden sight of the whore gagging on Trevor's cock burns the back of his eyelids. He grits his teeth, and is taken with the sudden desire to ram his own cock down Sherlock's throat, to mark him, to _possess_ him.

Instead, he tugs on the curls, and Sherlock lets go of his cock with a displeased grunt, a thin strand of saliva bridging his slit to Sherlock's ungodly lips. He smears it with the back of his hand, his eyes on John, questioning.

"What the hell are you doing?" John asks. _What the hell _am I _doing_.

"Indulging," Sherlock says, wrapping his hand around John's cock. He tugs on the foreskin, making it pop over the head, droplets of spit gathering together and leaking down the shaft. Sherlock watches the slow movement of his hand, the barest hint of teeth on his lower lip, seemingly fascinated.

John clears his throat, but Sherlock doesn't let go. Not that John is sure he wants him to. "And what was yesterday, if not indulging?"

"Yesterday was about proving a point," Sherlock says, still distracted. What!? Then: "Fuck my mouth."

He gapes. "I'm sorry?"

"Fuck. My. Mouth. Am I speaking French?" he asks with a roll of eyes. "Sometimes I forget myself."

"I don't want to hurt you."

Sherlock sighs. "You couldn't hurt me if you tried to."

John isn't so sure about that, but before he can answer, Sherlock spreads himself all over him, a rather considerable erection dragging across John's thigh, before he flips them over with surprising force.

"What—"

"On your knees," Sherlock orders.

Frowning, John obeys him, straddling his lap before getting on his knees. With yet another sigh, Sherlock drags himself down across the bed, until John knows he's facing his cock.

A warm hand spreads on his arse, trying to push him down.

"Have you ever done this before, Captain?" Sherlock whines.

"Of course I have. I don't want to hurt you."

"Maybe I should have kept Blond Curls," Sherlock says, and John can imagine too well the dramatic pout on his face. "He didn't have any qualms about feeding me his cock. I can still taste him if you want to—"

"Fuck you," John snaps, taking his cock in hand and smearing the tip across Sherlock's closed mouth. "Shut your bloody loud mouth and get sucking."

Without any words — thank fucking God — Sherlock opens his lips and hums, satisfied, the moment John shoves his cock in his mouth. With a grunt, John grabs the headboard of his bed and bucks down Sherlock's throat, rising on his knees to properly sit on his face.

"Look at you, greedy little whore," John whispers, as he trails his thumb around his shaft, around the outline of Sherlock's stretched Cupid's bow. "You're at your happiest with a cock in your mouth, aren't you?"

Sherlock whines around him, the sound thrumming around John's cock, down his veins. He rises on his knees for a second, and takes out his spit-slick cock to run it across Sherlock's lips, mesmerised with how pinked up they are, how bloody fucked Sherlock looks like, and they even haven't properly started yet.

He groans, tugging at his cock and readjusting himself over Sherlock. "Get my balls now, sweetheart," he orders, and throws his head back just as he feels the barest hint of Sherlock's tongue on them.

He pants as Sherlock takes half of his sack in his mouth, his fingernails dragging across the back of John's thighs. It's been a bloody while since he's fucked anyone's mouth, not that he's never thought about it since, not that he's never wanked to the thought of Trevor on his knees in front of him, all long limbs and blond curls. _His_. Just like Mary was _his_, before they took her away from him.

"I—" Sherlock starts, which makes John grunt.

"No, no, no, pet, your mouth's only good to suck," he says, stuffing him with his cock again before he can sputter some more nonsense. "Let's see how much you can take."

He starts fucking him earnestly, feeling how hard Sherlock is trying to accommodate him, to relax his gag reflex, tears welling in his eyes. It makes John's heart stop for half-a-second, but then, apart the obscene sucking sound that fills the room, John distinguishes the soft _fap fap fap_ of a man jerking himself off.

Sherlock is getting's off on this. A bit enthusiastic, for a whore, not that John minds. In the contrary.

"You're doing good, very good," John praises, as he pushes further and further, until Sherlock's noses presses to his pubic hair. "You've got it all, pet, now I'm going to fuck you, all right? Just like you wanted to."

Sherlock hums again, and John sticks his hand in his curls, adding leverage as he thrusts in long strokes. Sherlock's throat is delightfully tight around him, sending shivers down John's spine every single time he swallows around him. He retracts himself every few thrusts, half-careful about not letting Sherlock choke too much, until one of Sherlock's hand's comes up to fondle with his balls, his other still busy chasing his own pleasure.

"You're going to come like that, aren't you?" John pants.

"Huh-uh," Sherlock moans, affirmative.

"Not before I do, though, or you wouldn't be a very good of a whore— fuck," he shouts, Sherlock's fingers pressing that perfect spot right behind his balls. "I'm not going to la—"

With a shout, he buries himself deep in Sherlock's throat, his cock pulsing once, twice, thrice — every single last drop of his come obediently swallowed.

Sherlock gasps for his breath, just as John removes his softening cock, and it's only then that he realises Sherlock has come as well.

He flops on his side, chest heaving, and rubs his hands over his face. Strangely enough, instead of getting out of bed and whining about yesterday's soup or whatever might be on his mind, Sherlock drags himself up to John, and pops up on one elbow, the rest of his body facing John. He gets the corner of a sheet and wipes his come from his chest, before his attention returns to John. For a few seconds, Sherlock's fingers trail in the short blond strands of John's hair, down his neck, before swirling them over his chest.

John frowns, and huffs, slightly confused at this sudden display of post-coital affection.

He does not have to say a thing, for a slight smile spreads on Sherlock's face, as he abandons his petting and curls up around John's chest.

"Hold me," he says, his voice in a rough whisper.

Eyebrows raised, John nonetheless complies, throwing an arm around Sherlock. After a moment, he turns slightly towards him, giving in to the warmth of another human body in his usually empty bed. Against his better sense, he rubs his beard against Sherlock's temple, before pressing his lips to the top of his head, into what could be a kiss. In turn, he feels Sherlock's hand sneaking down his body until it loosely wraps up around softening cock and balls.

He frowns. "How—"

"Yesterday," Sherlock says. "You were done but you wanted to stay in me as long as possible."

"I thought you were already asleep by that point."

Sherlock smiles. "Half-asleep, maybe. Still, it's my job to notice that kind of thing."

John's heart squeezes in his chest. His_ job_. Right. Sherlock's a prostitute, he can't think of his show of affection as anything real.

He closes his eyes for half-a-second, remembering what had happened yesterday after he carried a naked Sherlock to his cabin. The sun had already sunken over the horizon, and he had put down the lax body on his bed. Just as he was about to straighten himself, Sherlock's hand had curled once again in the front of his shirt, dragging him down in the sheets with him. John is not sure if Sherlock actually remembers that part. If he does, he is certainly not going to mention it. John divested his clothes quickly and joined Sherlock, careful about not touching him, before Sherlock threw his arms around him, instinctually burying himself closer in another's arms, his sleep still undisturbed. For long minutes, John had watched his face, his peaceful features, revelled in the long lines of his lean, gorgeous, satiated body. 

"You looked like you were enjoying yourself quite a bit, for a prostitute," John points out. Just like yesterday, Sherlock had climaxed. It's a bit harder to fake for a man than for a woman, but John guesses that male prostitutes don't necessarily come every single time.

"Mmh, yes, as I've said, I was indulging."

"And what was that, about proving a point yesterday?"

"Oh, that," Sherlock says, waving his free hand. "Your men were arguing about you. Forehead Scar was complaining about how you didn't let them kill everyone in sight on The Valiant once you had retrieved me. Blond Curls agreed that you were too soft of a captain to last, and that they would have more success should your ship become an exclusively hunting one."

John jerks his chin back. He did not know his men had taken any issue with him, certainly not that they were unsatisfied with their current situation. But then, it's not like John spends a lot of time with them. Maybe he has brought this upon himself.

"And that somehow leads to you suggesting having an orgy below deck?" he asks, eyebrows raised.

"Of course not. I got them fighting about their personal issues, and asked them to settle it by having a friendly competition about who would bring me off first. Obviously, I knew you would come to check on me again, and I only had to say the right words to rile you up and get you to fuck me so deep I could taste your cock at the back of my throat. I deduced your men weren't used to witness you in positions of absolute power and authority, so I gave you what you needed to assert control on them once more. It worked. They were quite impressed, you know," he adds with a grin.

John licks his lips. "You're… not a common prostitute, are you?"

Sherlock's smile only grows. "Now you're getting somewhere, Captain."

"What do you do, exactly?"

"Let's just say that I'm good at learning what other people don't know. Sex is a particularly good means in getting information."

John frowns. "You're a spy, you mean?"

"Now," Sherlock whispers, rising on his hands and coming above John, his nose brushing to his, "let's not get carried away by using words we don't mean. It would ruin the game."

Just like that, he presses a soft kiss to the corner of John's mouth, before jumping back and off the bed in a same movement. As naturally as ever, he travels the room to John's wardrobe, and flings its door open.

"The game?" John huffs.

"Oh, everything is a game, Captain, especially sex." John watches as Sherlock rips one of his white, loose shirts from his wardrobe, inspecting it, a wrinkle forming between his eyebrows. "You're quite good at it when you forget yourself, you know?"

"This is not—"

"It's not how you usually go about, I _know_. I've told you: it's my business to know what other people don't."

John smiles, his jaw clenching. For how much he'd bluffed during sex, he doesn't regret telling Sherlock that he likes it more when he doesn't talk. "All right. What have you got on me?"

"You're a retired battalion doctor, English, of course," Sherlock says, slipping the shirt over his neck, "and of lower class, raised by a single mother. You have fled England after sustaining injury to your shoulder, met your wife in Nassau and lived a practically idyllic life until you decided to pursue personal revenge and hunt the Crown's ships."

John, risen from the bed, steps up to him, his thoughts as fast as The Fusilier on her best days.

"She's dead, isn't she, your wife?"

"How do you know that?" John grits out. "Did Trevor tell you? Do you work for _them_? Or was it a stain on my sleeve or whatever trick your pulling on me?"

Sherlock shrugs. "No. You just fuck like someone who's mourning."

Any rational thought drains out of him as he catches Sherlock by the wrist, his fingertips dimpling the already-raw skin from the chains he had been wearing for weeks now, but Sherlock escapes his grasp by twisting his hand and shoving John's elbow upwards.

He could have retaliated easily, but it's not like he actively wants to fight the man. Sherlock catches his jaw, just as John tries to avert his gaze, shameful of that outburst.

"Now, Captain, as much as we have fun in bed playing games, I do not think it particularly wise to resort to violence in any other context."

His voice is dead cold, and John lifts his chin, letting Sherlock's hold on him drop.

"I agree. That—" John starts, "that was amazing. Took me by surprise."

Sherlock's lips stretch into a smile, the whole ordeal seemingly already forgotten. "That's not what they usually say."

"What do they usually say?"

"Not much, but they don't usually hesitate before they hit."

John winces. "Sorry about that. It won't happen again. I don't want to hurt you."

"You keep saying that, Captain, but you've yet been nothing but considerate with meeting my needs."

"That's— fucked up," John lets out. He could never imagine himself having the sex he just had with Sherlock, with Mary, for instance.

Sherlock takes a pair of trousers out of the wardrobe, holding them in front of him before putting them on. "It's just a game," he says with a smile. "No need to fret. Damn, my feet are too big for your boots."

John frowns. "Now what?"

Sherlock looks up, their eyes meeting. "Now, I'm going to explore your ship, and see if anyone needs my services."

"So you're going to sleep with half of my crew?"

"Oh, more than _half_. They're ready to riot. You're lucky they haven't organised a full-on mutiny, yet, Captain, but with my help, we'll be able to rein it in."

"And why would you want to help me?"

"Let's just say, in board terms," he says, lacing up his shirt, "that any enemy of my enemy is my friend. You've certainly not saved my life, but gained me precious months of work I would have had to use to get out of the bottom of an English fortress. You're also providing me with transportation back to Nassau, along with food and water. It's the least I can do."

"I've never known a whore to be generous before," John grumbles, which makes Sherlock laugh.

"Ha! I want to keep you in business, Captain Watson. Your little enterprise helps me achieve mine. Common enemy, as I've said. But then, you won't be much help when they throw you overboard or demote you. Sex can wreak havoc amongst a crew, or satiate one so much that they won't think about anything else."

"Let's be clear, here, you want to fuck your way through my crew so they don't overthrow me?"

"Something like that, yes, I don't have a specific plan in mind yet."

John jerks his chin back. "I don't trust you. You're a whore _and_ a spy."

"You don't have to trust me. I just want you to fuck me once in a while when I get bored with the others."

"Ha!" John barks. "So you're going to drag your cock around my crew and then come back with your arse leaking come all over my sheets? Fuck off," he says, pushing Sherlock in the chest. "And don't come back to my cabin."

Sherlock huffs, but without a word, turns on his heels and slam's the cabin's door behind him.

John, breathless, drops on the nearest chair. What the hell has just happened? It seems like he can't have a single conversation with that man without getting riled up. He hasn't even had the time to ask him how and why he was captured. One minute they were cuddling, the other, nearly tearing at each other's throats.

He stares at the door, his hand clenching in his lap. A week to get back to Nassau with a whore on board. That ought to work out well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously, I won't be posting a chapter per day in the future, but I was very motivated today to continue this story. 
> 
> Please note that both Sherlock and John are a bit not good, here, but apart from rough consensual sex, there will be no "violent" content between them, at any time in this fic. (Ergo, don't expect a morgue scene to jump at you in the middle of it.)
> 
> Next up: Sherlock is going to have loads of sex with loads of different men, in all kinds of scenarios. These scenes will all advance the plot intrigue wise, or emotionally-wise when it comes to his strange relationship with John. There will be intrigue, and yes, more sex with John, when they solve their respective issues. Again, if it's not your thing, this may not be for you! But do expect a happy ending where Sherlock and John end up together, with better communication skills than what they currently have. :P 
> 
> I haven't tagged it yet because I'm not sure to incorporate it in the fic, and I don't usually ask for advice plot-wise because I usually know where I'm going, but since we're all here to have a fun time I'd like to know how you people feel about... friends-with-benefits Sherstrade?


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A friend suggested breath play, and even though I'm not well-versed in that kink, I hope this chapter delivers! 
> 
> Please note that there's a man with bad intention on the ship. Nothing non-consensual happens in this chapter, but Sherlock has a fright.

His bare feet stomp up the last few narrow steps before emerging from below deck, the strong sunshine shining making him blink a few times, before his gaze settles on the outline of The Fusiliers's mast and sails.

"Move out o' the way," a pirate grumbles, and Sherlock steps aside to free the passage to the stairs.

He blinks again. It's past midday — he has slept a long while, to make up from the lack of sleep and harsh conditions aboard The Valiant.

Most of the men on the deck seem to be already fairing to their daily occupations. Sherlock distinguishes them, perched on the masts, working the sails or the deck. A few of them are knotting ropes, and that makes him smile. If nobody shows interest in him, he knows what other kind of job he could try his hands to on the ship.

Not that the men (and few women) do not seem interested. In fact, most of their heads had turned towards him the moment he stepped from below deck. Words travel fast, of course, and so most of the crew look at him as if he were some kind of trash they brought up from the sea. Inevitably, those men will be the firsts to form a line.

He notices a few looks of surprise, and some mixed with respect — most of them from the men and women who indulged in collective pleasure on the night before.

He shakes his head, not minding the looks. It's not the first time he has been cast aside from a group of people, and certainly not the last. Not that he minds. He is always above the collective mind of the herd.

Sherlock's eyes vacillate from the knotting men and women to the man at the helm. Strangely enough, it's the same one as yesterday night, when he was brought below deck. An older man, not too strange for a pirate but curious enough, his skin tanned and his hair salt-and-pepper, as is seasoned by the sea itself. High enough in the crew's hierarchy to be holding the helm. Maybe not Captain Watson's right hand, since Sherlock did hear about a certain Gregson during his rescue yesterday, but not far from it. Standing on his own, the man is a brooding figure in front of the blue horizon, his coat slapping at his lower back. Deep in his thoughts. Pining, Sherlock realises.

Of course. There's_ always_ a woman involved.

Nonetheless, this seems like a good point to start. A few steps bring him towards the helm, facing the back of the unknown man.

"Been here all night?" he asks, casually.

The man turns, eyes open wide. Nothing disdainful, just sheer surprise that Sherlock chose to start a conversation with him, in particular. "Not at all, I managed to get a few hours in. Tad surprising, considering the hunt yesterday, but we didn't get much back here apart from you."

Sherlock hums, watching as the man holds the helm, eyes still on the distance, as if it's a second nature to him. "I'm Greg Lestrade, by the way."

"Sherlock."

"Glad to see you up and well, Sherlock. Care to try yourself at the helm?"

It's Sherlock's turn to gape, before he catches himself. "Of course."

He steps in, and Lestrade hands him off the helm, which naturally turns in the wind's direction, making the old structure of The Fusilier creak as she sets a bit to the side.

"Hold it there," Lestrade says, just as Sherlock is adjusting his position, bare feet planted on the wood, arms bulging as he tugs back to steer the ship correctly. On the helm, Lestrade's hand brushes his, and retracts a moment later. "Good," Lestrade nods. "Ever dreamed about being a sailor, Sherlock?" he asks, with a smile.

Sherlock grins back. "A sailor? No. A pirate, most _certainly_."

Lestrade barks out a laugh, throwing his head back, and Sherlock tries to keep the helm from rolling out from his grasp. This is harder than what it looks like. "Well, this is your day."

From the corner of his eyes, Sherlock can see Lestrade's gaze wandering up and down his body. "John threw you out?" he says, chin pointing at Sherlock's bare feet.

John? "Not exactly. I was the one to leave," he says. "I wouldn't have fit in any of his boots anyway."

Lestrade's eyebrows shut up, just as he stabilises the helm with one hand again, helping Sherlock's current struggle with the wind. "I'm sure his boots were the point of contention here. It did sound like you were having a good time."

"How—"

"My cabin," Lestrade explains. "I'm John's Second Mate, a bit unorthodox on a pirate ship, but he likes to be counselled by more than one man."

"I'm sure he does."

"But yes, I have a cabin of my own, at the back of the ship, and I did mention working on maps this morning…"

"Ah," Sherlock lets out. "I'd be sorry about disturbing you, but I don't regret any of it."

Lestrade shrugs. "I had to check on the crew anyway. And… I'm honestly glad John finally had someone to share his bed with, if only for the night."

"You mean he hasn't, since his wife died?" Lestrade throws him a look, and Sherlock waves a hand, before sticking it back to the helm. "Don't ask, I just know."

He steadies his gaze forward, still battling with the heavy helm, unsure if Lestrade will answer him. His lack of answer only proves that he's right, that Captain Watson of The Fusilier hadn't had proper sex since the death of his wife, which must have happened… two years ago? That's about when he became captain of his own ship, with his own mission in mind.

Feet stomp up the stairs, and Captain Watson emerges from below deck, his body already tense, alert. Without a look to Sherlock nor Lestrade, he jumps forward in long strides to reach the front of the ship. He then spares a look up his sails, checking on his men, and when he travels his eyes to the back of the ship, they meet Sherlock's, and his fist tightens in anger.

What a sight it must be, for the captain of The Fusilier, to see his whore holding the helm of his vessel. Sherlock smiles, although it's fake and Captain Watson has already turned his head around. Sherlock's in control of his ship. Physically and figuratively speaking.

"Was his cock _that _good?" Lestrade sighs, and Sherlock's gaze unsticks from Watson's figure.

"Better than you would know," he chuckles, and pretends not to notice Lestrade's slight wince. "He's an interesting man."

Lestrade hums. "I've known him for a long time, but the two past years have put distance between us. He's a mystery to anybody else."

_Not for me_, Sherlock wants to say. Soon enough, he'll know everything about Captain Watson. He'll unlock the secrets of his body and soul, conquer him, and bring back both the spoils and the treasure.

He shakes his head. Then: "Do we have the same boot size?" he asks, stepping closer to Lestrade in order to put his foot next to his boot. They're perfectly aligned. He knew that the moment he saw the man, of course.

"We do. Billy," Lestrade tells the closest man, "do watch that for me, will you? Let's go to my cabin, I can find you a pair," he adds to Sherlock, who answers with a grin.

He follows Lestrade below deck and to the back of the ship, the same trip he made this morning, although too furious to actually deduce his surroundings. There are a few doors down the corridor leading to Watson's cabin, and Lestrade stops in front of one of them, slips a key in the lock, and enters, Sherlock on his heels.

The cabin is three times smaller than Watson's. There's a cot, somewhere in size between a double bed and a single one, pushed to the back wall, and a heavy-looking desk with a single chair to the other wall, the one shared with the hallway. The drawer is on the other side of the room, under which a few pairs of boots stick from, that Lestrade is now closely inspecting.

Sherlock's nose twitches as he eyes the bed, and starts unlacing his trousers.

He's pushing them down around his thighs when Lestrade turns around, and nearly throws the boots at him.

"Dear God! Sherlock— no!"

He frowns. "Are you not interested?" Surely, he could do with a bit of a cleaning, but he's never known pirates to be too conscientious about hygiene.

"It's not— it's not _that_."

"So you _are_ interested."

"I'm not free, is what I meant," Lestrade says, still holding the boots at an arm's length, definitely avoiding Sherlock's eyes.

"Oh, Lestrade," Sherlock says, "_everyone_ is free."

"I'm really not."

Sherlock shrugs, and picks up the boots, setting them by his feet. In a few swift movements, he laces back his trousers, and bends to shove each foot in a boot, which do indeed fit him. Upon seeing the look on Lestrade's face, he sighs.

"It's not like I'm going to force myself on you. You know where to find me if you change your mind," he adds.

"Sherlock," Lestrade says, just as he's about to step through the door. "Mary wasn't John's wife. They couldn't have."

Sherlock frowns.

It takes him a moment, and then everything becomes clear.

***

Well, that didn't go exactly as planned, Sherlock reflects, as he descends another flight of stairs to join the main hall where most of the crew sleeps and eats, the one he had been brought in yesterday. Lestrade had been his second choice due to his Second Mate status, right after the captain, and although he couldn't exactly force him to take him to bed, he knows that Lestrade will not resist much longer. Pirates are well-known for taking matelots on long-distance voyages, something that is often permitted by their girlfriends and wives. But Lestrade is a loyal man, and it will take more than a bit of undressing to make him understand he has nothing to fear by being with Sherlock.

In any case, Sherlock's without a place to sleep tonight. His first instinct had been to get in the good graces of a man in the very top of the crew's hierarchy, to achieve a status that would protect him from getting too mishandled by the common masses on the boat. It is clear that Captain Watson wants his men to be of a higher standard, but Sherlock's presence on board has perturbed their routine. And most men do believe that because he's a whore, consent is therefore a given thing.

He'll have to find a solution, to assert his dominance by the end of the day, if he doesn't want them to gang up on him like a pack of animals the moment the sun sets down.

But first, he needs to eat something.

For the first time since he arrived on the ship, he feels hunger deep in his stomach, as if leaving a hole through his body. Which is not currently helped by the salivating aroma of soup that's floating in the air.

He enters the main hall, hands holding hammocks and ropes as the ship rocks from side to side, waves suddenly stronger. The table that has been set to the side yesterday, the same table Captain Watson had blessedly fucked him against the day before, is now in the middle of the room. Fifteen crew members are slurping at their soup, whilst a few more are making a line in front of what Sherlock deduces to be the cook, filling up their bowls one at the time. Too hungry to think properly, Sherlock steps into the line, impatiently waiting for his turn.

"I'll take your bowl," the cook starts, a jovial man with a round face, when he finally reaches him.

"I don't have one." He could have nicked one near the hammocks, but he's trying to stay low-profile.

The cook looks up, surprised. "Oh! You're the guest." He cracks a smile, bright and friendly, as if he did not know what exactly Sherlock is, apart from a _guest_. "Here you go," he says, taking an empty bowl to his side and filling it to the brim with soup, before handing him a generous piece of bread as well.

"Thank you," Sherlock can't help but say. "You are…?"

"Mike Stamford. The cook of the ship. Obviously. I have to admit I can't stand seeing people cutting each other into bits, so the captain gracefully offered me this job."

"Is it well paid?" Sherlock asks, curious. "You do not participate in hunts."

"Oh, I don't receive as much money as the others, but I don't mind living a simple life. It's pretty peaceful in here, even if you might think otherwise. Captain Watson made sure we aren't persecuted here like we are in Nassau by some folks, and certainly not like we were back home, in good old England."

Sherlock is about to answer, but the next man in the line grunts, impatient.

"Sorry, the line has to keep moving," Stamford says. "It was nice meeting you, and if you want to continue that conversation, you know where to find me," he adds with a smile, although his voice is without any innuendo to it.

Sherlock nods, and moves along, taking as naturally as possible a spot on the table, as most of the people there turn their heads to carefully watch him set his bowl down, and sit on one of the wooden chairs.

Without looking up, he attacks his food, the soup delightfully warm and the bread filling, not minding the silence that has set in at the table from the moment he sat down.

The silence is broken when the man in front of him leans to the person on his right, and whispers, loudly enough for everyone to hear, "I wonder if he'll eat my ass as hungrily as he eats his soup."

"Shut the fuck up, Dalton," the woman at the other end of the table — Janine? — says, but Sherlock has already dropped his spoon in a loud _clang_ on the table, and risen to his feet.

Without a second thought, he tugs his trousers down his thighs. "You want that?" he barks at the man, whose eyes darken, mouth-falling half open, aroused at the sight of a whore's soft cock and balls. It makes Sherlock smile._ Animals_. All of them. "Look at you, you _do_. Well, you're not going to have it, because I'm not done with my soup, and against the general belief here, I don't live off fresh water and come. So you're going to shut your idiot mouth, let me eat in peace, and when I'm done, I am going to choose the next person who's going to get this," he says, with a wave of hand towards his bare parts, "and you can be sure as hell it will be someone who actually treats me with a little bit of respect. There are fifty of you and one of me, and I'm choosing my clients, so I'd suggest you start to behave right this moment and _shut the fuck up_, as your friend just said."

Silence strains across the table and the line of people waiting for their soup, before they start breathing again in a small, collective gasp. Soon enough, the clicking of spoon and bowls starts again, and Sherlock laces up his trousers, before he falls back down to his chair.

Maybe he should have become an actor, he thinks to himself, back in England. But then, acting as an informant and a prostitute does require a whole lot of acting, doesn't it?

Everybody watches him as he finishes eating. Stamford, against the other wall, is red at his cheeks and keeps on serving the line of people waiting for their soup. Some of the men look sheepish whilst others cannot contain their arousal. The man in front of him — Dalton — has not moved his gaze away from him, visibly angered and defiant.

That was a close call. Without Watson or Lestrade making their claim on him, Sherlock has to gain respect any other possible way. Clearly, some of the men have got the message and will leave him alone for the most part, but he has also angered the few that thought they could get their way with him. Dalton and his friends will be the ones to be careful of.

He finishes his soup slowly, biting in his bread from time to time, as he shoots a few looks around the table, wondering where exactly he should start after lunch. His first man will inevitably be shot in the dark, he decides, and he'll build up from there. Why not choose someone he might actually enjoy?

When he finally pushes the bowl away from him and leans back on his chair, the silence in the room deepens even more. He stands, eyes on the small crowd in front of him, and feels both arousal and deception vibrating in the air as he passes in front of each pirate, refusing them at the same time.

Sherlock stops, and turns on his eyes, his gaze settling on the biggest man in the room, easily twice as broad as him. He trails his gaze up and down his body, before raising his eyebrows in a silent question.

"Can I bring a friend?" the man asks.

"Yep. Not him, though," Sherlock says, his head designating Dalton.

"Nah, not him."

Sherlock smiles. "Let's find somewhere private."

***

The door to the infirmary is unlocked, as Sherlock, followed by Jack Oakes and his 'friend', a small and lean man of Hispanic roots named Rojas step behind him.

Rojas drops on the nearest chair, a grin on his face, while Oakes turns towards Sherlock. "He's going to tell us what to do. Is that fine with you?"

Considerate man. But then, Sherlock wouldn't have chosen anyone else to start with. "Of course."

"Get his shirt off," Rojas orders Oakes.

Oakes steps in front of Sherlock, crowding him with his broad, strong body. In contrast with the force the man can most likely muster on the battlefield, Oakes gently unlaces the front of Sherlock's shirt, before tugging the shirt over his head. He licks his lips, and trails his thumb down Sherlock's chest, stopping on a nipple.

"Jack," Rojas warns him, and Jack groans. "Boots, señor Sherlock, and then you'll get his trousers, Jack."

Following the orders, Sherlock steps out of his boots, and lets Jack unlace the front of his trousers, bringing them back around his thighs, his knees. Jack offers him a hand as he steps out of them.

"You're pretty," Jack tells him, his eyes roaming over Sherlock's naked body. Apparently, sweet talking doesn't raise any issues for Rojas, who continues with his plan.

"Sherlock, go lie down on the cot, on your front. Jack, take your clothes off."

Obediently, Sherlock does as he is told, but turns his head as he rests his cheek against the back of his hands to witness Jack divesting of his clothing. He can't help but rub his hardening cock on the sheet as Jack tugs on his own shirt, revealing a broad, generously haired chest, skin tanned to a shade close to Rojas's. Turned sideways, in order for both men to appreciate the show, he takes his trousers off without much ceremony, revealing a soft cock of substantial size (average for the size of his body, but his body is nothing but average) nested in a cloud of dark hair.

Sherlock's mouth fills up. Dear God, he wants to choke on _that_.

"Are you prepared, Sherlock?" Rojas asks, his accent delightfully rolling the r's in Sherlock's name.

He shakes his head.

"Here," Rojas tells Jack, handing him a small vial of what Sherlock guesses to be oil. "Get on the bed and get him ready."

The cot dips as Jack kneels down on it, and Sherlock instinctively spreads his legs. From what he has seen, Jack isn't even half-hard at the prospect of fucking him, but that should change soon enough.

"How many?" Jack asks.

"Two," Rojas decides.

Two fingers, slick with oil, part Sherlock's arrestees. He bucks, trying to get them right where he wants them. A smile spreads on his face. He isn't usually this keen on being fucked by clients, but two weeks without anyone touching him have reduced him into a needy mess of a whore. His cock is already fully hard, digging holes in the sheets.

Jack's fingers finally push in, and Sherlock closes his eyes.

"Good," Rojas whispers, and Sherlock hears the buckle of a belt being pulled open. So this is how it works. Rojas gets off on Jack fucking others. _Oh_, this is a game he likes already. "Start slow, and build up. Find his spot, yeah, curve your fingers a bit."

Sherlock moans as Jack's rough fingers curl up just in the right way. He straightens his right arm, and goes to slip him under his belly when Rojas intervenes.

"No, Sherlock, I want to see if Jack can make you come from his cock alone."

"Then get it in me, _now_," he snaps, already frustrated.

Rojas, his hand down his trousers, raises his eyebrows and nods at his partner.

Jack's fingers leave him feeling empty, until the head of his cock comes to brush against his hole. Sherlock sucks a breath in the moment Rojas whispers a heavy, "Go on."

He wants to scream the moment Jack enters him, fills him steadily with his cock, leaning in and covering Sherlock's whole body with his own. Instead, he bites at the sheets, eyes closed and filled with tears, as his hands close around the wooden frame of the cot, his knuckles brushing against the wall.

"Start slow."

Jack rocks his hips, and Sherlock tries to follow him even though he is entirely pinned down to the cot. "More," he begs. "More, more, _more_!"

"You don't get to decide," Jack whispers to his ear, as he slips a broad hand down to knead at Sherlock's arse.

His calloussedhand is rough on Sherlock's soft skin, an instant reminder of Johns grasp on him, the night before.

"Fuck him good, now," Rojas says, but Sherlock doesn't even hear him, too taken with Jack's sharp thrust up his hole.

He grabs at the sheets, then once more at the cot, searching for purchase as Jack fucks him through and through, the sound of Rojas jerking up somewhere behind them.

And then, suddenly, Jack becomes John and John becomes Jack, and it's John who's holding him down, it's John's balls who are slapping against the roundness of his arse, it's John who's searching his pleasure so deep into Sherlock that he can nearly taste it.

John, Jack, John, Jack, John, Jack, John, Jack. Melting into one single being, melting on Sherlock's lips, who might be calling out a name, the wrong name, maybe — Sherlock can feel him, smell him, taste him, touch him, as he grabs at a strong thigh, knuckles white on the tanned skin. Jack mounts him like John would have, like John should have, like John will do, losing a bit more control with each thrust, with each shove, showing Sherlock how he needs him, how he wants him, how he cannot _resist _him.

And then, there are words he doesn't catch, and a hand curls up around his throat.

"Tap twice, anywhere, if you want to stop," the soft, low voice breathes in his ear.

And it's John's hand, it _must_ be John's hand that closes around his neck, that reduces the oxygen flowing down his throat into the smallest string of air. Oh, John knows how to make him come, John knows how to play with him in all the right ways, John knows he doesn't need to breathe, John knows he only needs his cock hammering him down as he chokes, as he chokes, as his throat closes and as he chokes… John might not trust him but oh, does he trust John to know when enough is enough, when his body is getting heavy from the hand around his neck, when his body is getting lax and his thoughts are slowing down, letting John fill up his mind, John who will not let him down, John who will always take care of him, John who will release his deadly grip the moment Sherlock's arse clenches around him, the moment his cock will spurt stripe after stripe after stripe of come on the sheets, coming, coming, coming, coming with a gasp—

Sherlock coughs, again and again, his throat sore, and when his eyes focus back to the room he is in, he realises he's leaning back on Jack's chest, who's kneeling behind him, still impaled on his erection. He grabs Jack's arm, the one holding him around his middle, and starts to thrust back against him, but Jack steadies him as Rojas speaks again.

"Did you come?" he asks Jack, his own hand shining at places with his own come.

"Yes," Jack says, and Sherlock tries to hide his frown, since it's most clearly a lie.

"Good," Rojas says, wiping his hand on his trousers. "Thank you for this, señor Sherlock," he adds with a smile, and drops a small purse on the infirmary's desk. "Will that be enough?"

Sherlock nods. He doesn't particularly care about payment when he's had such a good time.

"Good," Rojas repeats. "I'll leave you to it. Don't take too long, Jack, or Lestrade will be angry again."

Jack groans. "I'll join you later."

On that Rojas shuts the door behind him.

Sherlock carefully dislodges himself from Jack's cock, still hard, still painfully red at the head. "You're not one for topping," he says, eyebrows raised. "Surprising, considering how good at it you are."

Jack catches his wrist. "What are you implying?" he grits out.

Sherlock smiles. This is clearly all for show, and Jack will never dare to hit him. But yes, certain men have been brought up with certain ideas, prejudices that hard to rationally undo. Instead of fighting back, Sherlock leans his head against Jack's shoulder.

"Lie back," he asks, and curls up around Jack when he does.

He trails a finger in the dark hair of Jack's chest, following its path down to his cock, which he takes in hand. Jack sucks in a breath, and Sherlock tugs at him, watching as precum wells up his slit and tumbles down his veined shaft.

"You like Rojas," Sherlock says. "That much is obvious. You like it when he says what to do, and he likes to watch. He likes to be in control, and you weren't opposed to fuck me, the thought of it excited you, even, but _just_ the thought of it."

"I don't know what you're meaning," Jack grumbles, already panting from Sherlock's tight hand around him.

"When you looked at my arse, when you fucked me with your fingers, with your cock, you were thinking about what it would be like, how it would be for you to be filled that way."

"Fuck off!" But Jack doesn't move, watching Sherlock's hand, his heartbeat elevated, from what Sherlock can hear against his chest.

"Oh, I'm right, whether you like it or not. There's no shame in being taken that way, whatever others might think. You were always curious about it, and curiosity transformed into a fantasy, and when Rojas first enrolled you into one of his little games—"

Jack seizes Sherlock's thigh, so hard Sherlock bites on his lower lip. It's frustration, but it only shows that he's getting somewhere, it only shows that he's _right_.

"What would you give for Rojas to fuck you? But he doesn't want that, does he? Since you first started together, it was clear that you'd do the fucking, and that he'd watch. You're the big bloke, and he's just so small, so scrawny, nothing like what people imagine of a man in control. Yet every time, _you_ imagine that it's him, that he's the one putting his cock in you, pining you to the cot—"

"Sherlock—"

"That he's the one thrusting up your arse, and you let him take you, in any way he wants to. You'd do that for him, and you'd love every single second of it."

"You're— you're—"

"And what if I told you that he's just waiting for you to say so?" he says with a grin. "He wants control, he wants control over you, he secretly wishes to take you, but he's convinced that a man like you, tall and broad and masculine, is only going to laugh at that idea. Yet both of you would be perfect at it, him ordering you around, you letting him—"

He doesn't even need to finish his sentence, for Jack is spilling all over his hands, belly contracted into a delightful set bulging muscles, his hand digging in Sherlock's thigh.

Jack lets his head fall back against the single pillow, as Sherlock caresses him through it. "You have no fucking—" Jack starts, but Sherlock hushes him.

"Just enjoy. I never judge."

Jack wraps an arm around him, bringing him closer. The next few minutes are spent in total silence.

"Will Lestrade get terribly angry at you?" Sherlock finally asks, with a smile.

"Not that much," Jack grunts. "He's always bluffing. The man wouldn't hurt a fly."

"Really? What about Captain Watson? Surely he doesn't like his men taking too much free time."

Jack shrugs. "The Captain's never here. He parades around the ship from time to time but doesn't talk to us too often, if only to bark an order. He's a damn good fighter, though," he adds, respect written all over his tone of voice. "Both Lestrade and Gregson let us do whatever we want if we get the job done at the end of the day."

"I haven't seen Gregson yet."

"He got a nasty wound on The Valiant. He's been in his cabin since yesterday night, but I know Captain Watson wanted to bring him to the infirmary. Lucky for us, he hasn't yet."

Sherlock hums. "The wound must not be that serious, then." He sighs. "Be honest, do I need to watch out for certain members of the crew? I'd rather make it back to Nassau alive."

Jack takes a moment. "Well, you've already met Dalton. He has a little gang of friends that causes trouble sometimes. Undermining the captain's orders, that sort of thing. Captain Watson would never tolerate things getting out of hand, though, but your presence on board might start a few internal wars."

"Thanks for the tip. We can't arrive soon enough in Nassau," he adds with a sigh.

"Yeah, this hunt hasn't had the biggest success. The men are bound to give Watson shit about it."

"No gold to bring back, and no slaves rescued," Sherlock says.

Jack hums. "Captain's in a mood. Most men are too, they're going back home with not enough money to buy rum and whores."

"Good thing I'm here to make everyone's stay more pleasant," Sherlock adds, with irony.

Jack chuckles, and stands up, not before wiping himself off with a corner of a sheet. "I'll have to go back." He dresses up in a few quick movements, and then, stares at Sherlock's naked body for a few more seconds. "You're really pretty, you know?"

Sherlock laughs, popping on his elbows just as Jack opens the door. "Oakes—" he starts. "I mean it. You might think I'm talking shit but if you want to… try it out, what I said, but without Rojas, you can always come and find me."

Jack shrugs, and his broad figure disappears through the open door.

***

Supper is a quiet affair. Sherlock has lounged on the decks most of the afternoon, during the course of which he dispensed three blowjobs in dark corners, for sweating, tired pirates on their breaks. His pockets are now full, and would he be after the money, he'd stay on that ship, for it is quite the lucrative affair.

But there is another problem looming over him as night envelops the sky and the sea, a problem that stares at him through supper (soup again) with crooked eyes. Dalton and his friends are drinking in a corner, shooting him looks, until Janine sits down beside him and stares them off. Women have always been more kind to prostitutes, but he isn't exactly sure how long she can repel the five of them.

Sherlock closes his eyes for a second, old memories flashing back in his mind. No, he really doesn't want to be on his own after the crew has joined their cots and hammocks.

Once supper is done, he stands up, hands his bowl back to Stamford, who as always, smiles brightly at him, and makes his way towards the deck.

Footsteps (multiple ones), follow.

He bites on his lower lip, his mind providing him with the map of the ship. He jogs up the stairs two-by-two, hearing how the footsteps quicken in his back.

"Sherlock, Sherlock, where are you?" Dalton's voice breaks through the soft rumble of the sea, as Sherlock travels towards the back of the boat in long strides. "We only want to play a little game."

_And I don't want to play_, Sherlock wants to reply, but shuts his mouth as he hides in a corner, body facing the sea. The moment he heads Dalton's footsteps echoing away from the stairway, he surges forward, nearly breaks off his neck by running down the stairs, until he reaches the part where the cabins are.

Breathing in, he steps into the one on his right, silently closing the door after him.

"Sherlock— what the hell," Lestrade grumbles from his bed, his cabin plunged into the darkness.

His back on him, Sherlock locks the door, and steps to face the cot. After a moment, he distinguishes Lestrade's chest and head through the darkness.

Without a word, he starts unlacing his shirt, tugging it over his head, and undoing his trousers.

"I told you," Lestrade says, "I don't want sex."'

"How about a bit of company?" Sherlock whispers, as his trousers fall to the floor.

He doesn't let Lestrade answer him, and climbs naked into the warm bed, pressing his body to Lestrade's, who wraps an arm around him. "Fine," he grumbles.

The cot is small, and they have to lie face-to-face, but Sherlock knows this isn't exactly why Lestrade is pressing his nose to his hair.

Outside, footsteps echo down the hallway, coming closer and closer. Sherlock holds his breath in, closing his eyes as Lestrade holds him tighter, deducing what he wants of the whole situation.

After a minute or two, the footsteps stomp the other way, until Sherlock cannot hear anything but the rumble of the sea and Lestrade's soft breath against him. Just like John, the man is inherently protective of him.

"I feel safe with you," he whispers in the man's shoulder.

Lestrade chuckles. "Do you think I've never been sweet-talked by a prostitute before? I'm not like the young ones, Sherlock."

Sherlock laughs, his eyes closing already. "It wasn't even half-a-lie," he says, as he feels sleep pulling him under like the tide, soft and warm and safe against Lestrade's body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As said on twitter and to my friends, I want this fic to be a melting-pot of things I and my readers and friends enjoy. You have anything in particular, smut-wise, that you'd like to see written in this fic? Anything you don't see often in fic, or would like to see more of it? Drop your idea in the comments and I'll see what I can do! (I can't promise anything, for I also have a plot to follow, but I'll try my best!)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, some proper Sherstrade! And some... genderplay, I guess?!
> 
> TW: please note that there is a part in this chapter (in italics), in which features a canonically-gross man: Magnussen. This part deals with (not too graphic) mistreatment of prostitutes, and dub-con (use of kinks/humiliation which isn't appreciated by the prostitutes, who are """consenting""" with it happening). Ergo, Sherlock is in a sticky situation and need to please a gross man by doing things he does not enjoy at all (which I do not write about explicitly in this chapter).  
I'd also like to say the kinks which are described in this chapter, and that will be mentioned in the future, are not gross by themselves, but made gross by the man who uses them in a dub-con way. I'm not at all making a statement about people who might enjoy those things!  
If you're following this fic only for the smut and are uneasy about reading that part, you can totally skip it. If you still want to follow the plot but don't want to read that part, there is a non-graphic summary of that scene in the bottom notes.

He wakes to the sound of panting in his ear, an erection pressed to the back of his thigh, and an arm wrapped around his chest.

Sherlock's cock twitches, as his eyes distinguish the pale outline of the desk in front of him, the cabin still plunged in total darkness. He groans, pressing his arse back against the already-slick cock rubbing against him, a smile spreading on his face. Second Mate Greg Lestrade has not offered much resistance in the end, the prospect of his gal back home too far from his thoughts in the middle of the night, when rationality is scarce, replaced by unabashed desire when confronted with a warm body in his sheets.

"Oh God, Oh God," Greg pants, rutting against him, just where arse meet thigh. "Oh, Molly."

Sherlock's eyebrows shut up. Well, that wouldn't be the first time it happens to him — comes with the job, of course, but it only proves him that Greg is not quite awake.

"Lestrade," he moans, and the lovely rocking that made the cot shake stops. "Oh, no, don't," he says, wrapping Lestrade's arm with his own.

"Sorry— I—"

Sherlock rocks back, and exhales when the — still, blissfully hard — cock nests against the small of his back. "I want it, you were giving it to me and I want it."

"Fuck." Greg's hips snap forward before they still again.

"Yes, yes, come on, keep doing that. I know you want it. I want it and you do as well, oh, please," he whines. "_Please_. I'm going to be so good for you."

"Fuck, Sherlock."

"No— not Sherlock, _Molly_."

"Oh God. Oh God."

Warm lips press against his back, going up his neck, and then down his shoulder, as Greg keeps on frotting against him, still warm and heavy from sleep. He guides Greg's hand to his nipple, and let him indulge in the illusion as he feels calloussed thumb pressing the tip of it to his skin. He bites on his lower lip as Greg's fingers change their course and trace around his nipple, making it harden by pinching it in a sudden contrast, which makes Sherlock hiss and press his back against Greg's front.

"Do you want to fuck me?" Sherlock pants, trying to look back, without much success.

"No," Greg whispers, "just— this," he adds, as he presses his cock under Sherlock's arse, trying to push between his thighs.

"Wait." Sherlock frees his hand and spits in his palm, before wiggling his hand between his legs, smearing spit over the inside of his thighs. "Go on," he says. "Fuck my cunt. I'm wet and ready for you."

Greg groans, this time pushing his cock in a harsh thrust between Sherlock's legs, his hand leaving Sherlock's nipple to wrap around his chest, holding him through it. The friction is delectable, the slow roll of the foreskin making his own cock painfully hard, as he feels his thighs becoming slick with Greg's precum. This is not something he does often — of course, men come with their preferences and sometimes queer demands, but they usually make use of a hole when they have one.

No, Greg making slow, deep love to his thighs in the middle of the night does feel more intimate than if he were inside him.

He's thinking about his gal back home, Sherlock knows, about how he's going to spread her on their bed the moment he steps back home, lick her through-and-through, and his face between her breasts, gently rock into her, face-to-face, promises of love and shorter voyages at sea on his lips.

None of that now — Sherlock reaches back, fisting a hand in the short, silver strands of Greg's hair, tugging in time with the rocking of the cot, a gasp on his lips when Greg's teeth carefully bite the lobe of his ear.

He moans, slapping his arse back to Greg's hips, reminding himself to contract his thighs, to make his _cunt _tighter and tighter for his man.

Until Greg's hand closes over his own painfully hard cock, which he had half-forgotten himself, jerking him in time with his thrusts.

"Yeah, come on," Greg whispers, "you're close, I can feel it."

"Fuck me harder," Sherlock pants, and Greg complies, slamming into him so hard that Sherlock half-fears being pushed off the edge of the cot altogether is his mind wasn't so dazed by lust and pleasure building up deep inside him, his balls feeling tight and tingly as Greg keeps on wanking him.

A nose presses just behind Sherlock's ear, and with a harsh huff, as if someone had punched him in the guts, Greg paints the inside of his thighs with his come. He never abandons Sherlock's cock, working it tighter and faster, and it's somewhere in the low and pressing litany of _come on, come for me, I have you, come for me_, that Sherlock's orgasm slams through his body, as he spills over Greg's hand.

The next thing he knows, he is on his back, eyes slightly lost in the darkness of the cabin if it weren't for Greg's silhouette somewhere above him. "I—" Sherlock starts, trying to get on his elbows.

"No," Greg whispers, "let me take care of you."

Greg reaches for something on the small drawer beside the cot, and a second later, Sherlock feels a cloth passing between his thighs, soft and caressing.

How Greg disposes of the cloth, he doesn't know, because he's suddenly wrapped in his arms, back on his side but this time facing Greg, who, _finally_, shamelessly travels his hands down Sherlock's back to cup his arse, bringing him closer.

"You did well. Let me take care of you, now," Greg repeats, pressing a kiss to Sherlock's forehead, who gives in and melts against his chest.

Two thoughts persist in Sherlock's mind as he feels himself fading away to sleep: one, that Greg Lestrade is awfully in love with his woman, and two, that Molly is a lucky gal.

***

_Sherlock rubs his limbs with the cloth, hurriedly and hard enough to leave red traces behind. He shouldn't have fooled with Reggie in the bath, but then the boy always looked at him under his lashes, puppy eyes full of adoration that he had trouble ignoring. Any form of gratifying intimacy being scarce between Appledore's walls, he had waved at Reggie to come on in, and shared messy handjobs in the rapidly cooling water, until his eyes had noticed the clock on the wall._

_"Here," Reggie says, offering him another, blessedly clean towel. _

_Sherlock grunts what could be a thank you, and keeps on drying himself, just as Reggie passes another towel through his hair._

_They had met for the first time on Reggie's first day in Appledore, when Sherlock had been tasked to shave him — entirely, apart from his fiery-red mop of hair. _

_"Why do you get to keep yours?" the boy, barely eighteen at the time, had asked him. His cheeks were red, trying to ignore with all his might that he had developed a substantial erection the moment Sherlock had got on his knees to carefully shave his groin._

_Sherlock had looked up, heart squeezing in his chest. It was hard to remain cold towards the novices, those who, just like Reggie, had given their body and soul to a vile man in order to secure a future for their families, for their sick relatives, or motherless children. In Reggie's case, it was his sister who had contracted an illness that required care and costly medication. "You'll learn quickly enough that we don't ask questions here," he had said. Remain cold towards his own, act in adoration towards the vile. That was their way of life._

_Reggie, just like the rest, learned his lessons quickly. That very same night, as Sherlock was turning again and again on his cot, he had heard the boy sniffling in a corner, just after returning from the main bedroom. Everybody else ignored him, but Sherlock eventually got up, lead the boy outside through the passages he had found, got him to the well and splashed buckets of cold water on the naked body, until the stench subdued. Back in their hall, Sherlock dried him off with his old towel, and let the boy share his cot instead of sleeping on the floor, his trembling body pressed to him as he cried silently through the night. _

_With time, Reggie, just like Sherlock, just like everyone else in here, had got used to their daily treatment._

_"You're going to be late," Reggie says, finishing off Sherlock's hair, making it puff into a could of brown curls. Reggie presses a kiss to the corner of Sherlock's mouth — which makes him sigh, before he wraps his half-transparent dressing gown around him, throws the towel to the floor, and walks on it, tugging it with his heels in order to avoid the dirty floor. _

_The progression is slow, but that way he knows every part of him will remain clean until he reaches the main bedroom. He gets on the bed, throws the towel under it, and lies down on his side, arranging his dressing gown as to only leave a strip of his body — shoulder to toe — bare._

_Voices come from the other side of the bedroom's second door, the one that leads to the office. His master is never careful, believing that his whores are too dumb to understand any of it anyway._

_"— will not be any of my problem soon enough," he hears his master say._

_"You sure? He's known to be… slippery."_

_"No one's slippery when I finish with them. Don't worry, everything is under control. England knows and they couldn't be happier about our little arrangement." _

_"What about Dead Eye?" _

_"What about him? He knows his orders and influential enough to make the ship divert and get what we need, should England not respect their part of the deal, which is more than likely."_

_"Don't you fear… reprisal?" _

_Magnussen's answer is drowned out in a succession of doors closing and opening, and Sherlock quickly rearranges himself on the bed._

_The moment Magnussen steps in the room, his eyes travel over Sherlock's body, with the sort of quiet hunger that never shows on his features but in his eyes._

_"My little bird is back," he says, simply, as he comes to sit on the bed. "How is our friend Abbott?" _

_"Quite tied up at the moment," Sherlock says, with a grin. "And convinced that the… rumour we've heard is nothing but a rumour." _

_Magnussen hums, as his long, precise fingers push Sherlock's gown off one of his shoulders. "What a waste of time." He tugs on Sherlock's arm, who lets him handle him freely. Magnussen lowers his face until his nose comes in contact with Sherlock's armpit, and sniffs. "I still wish you'd shave."_

_"You know I can't do that," Sherlock sighs. This is a constant battle he has to lead against his master, who is intelligent enough to know that a shaved informant would give himself away the moment he would step out of his clothes, yet too human not to give in his most primal needs._

_"You smell like Reginald," Magnussen draws out, a frown on his face._

_"He lent me a towel, mine was getting too dirty." _

_Magnussen hums, clearly not convinced. Instead, he brings his nose against Sherlock's cheek, who closes his eyes. He never likes that part, and thankfully, Magnussen doesn't need him to pretend. _

_He likes it better when Sherlock's breath sticks down his throat, when he tries not to wince, not to shiver, as Magnussen licks a broad stripe up his face. _

_Then:_

_"Tell me, Sherlock. What do you know about Captain John Watson?" _

***

He wakes up to the smell of sweat and sex, his face mashed in the (thankfully) hairy armpit of a man. Eyelids heavy, Sherlock grunts, rolling on his back, and registers the slow back-and-forth of the waves. Right. He is at sea, on Captain Watson's Fusilier, and not back at Appledore, just like he dreamed through the night.

The man besides him shuffles, making the cot tremble. "_John_," he groans, throwing his arm over his face.

"Nope, you've got the wrong one." Sherlock's eyes shoot open, as he removes his arm from his face. "Morning," Greg says, his voice still heavy from the sleep, although Sherlock deduces the man has been awake for a while now. He thought he would have gone early in the morning, to check on his men or to work at his deck, leaving his cabin and Sherlock behind in shame at having done much more than simply shared his cot for the night. "Do you always mix up the name of your clients?"

Sherlock yawns, tugging the sheets back up his body, revealing a bit of Greg's. "You're hardly a client."

Greg's eyebrow shoot up. "Really?"

"Hmm. I'd say we're in a mutually beneficial relationship. You let me share your cot every night, and in return, you may obtain whatever you want from me during those hours."

He stares at the ceiling, letting his eyes acclimate to the slow morning glow filling the cabin whilst Greg remains entirely silent.

Then: "Some people after you, then?"

Sherlock snorts. "Everyone and their mother, yes. People aren't generally used to being in close proximity with someone whose intellect is above average. And any unstable crowd is prone to turn violent."

His words make Greg smile. "Someone whose intellect is above average? That supposed to be you?"

"Of course," Sherlock says, turning on his front, his thigh brushing against Greg's, "I hide it well but I am, in fact, a genius," he adds, a sly smile to his face, which makes Greg laugh.

"You do not _hide it well_!" Sherlock pouts. "How impatient were you just to tell me that?"

"I thought you would have figured it out by yourself, by now."

Greg rolls his eyes, folding his arm under his head. "So, are you an unexpectedly clever prostitute, or hiding something?"

Sherlock places his hand on Greg's chest, travelling his fingers through the fine hair. "A little bit of both?" he says, distracted. There is no point to hide in front of Greg, the man is an open book and can keep a secret if a secret it is. Slowly, Sherlock slides his arm under the sheets until he curls it around Greg's cock, which is surprisingly soft.

"Sorry, Sherlock," Greg says, "but I'm out of service for a few hours still."

Sherlock's nose twitches. That is… unfortunate. "I bet I could make you come three times in a single night."

Greg throws his head back, laughing, until Sherlock pronounces the fatal word: "Molly."

"Aren't we a pair of sad pining men?" Greg says, looking down to where Sherlock's hand is still entertaining the hope of making his cock come alive, before he gives up, letting himself fall chest first on the cot.

"I'm not pining," Sherlock says just as Greg snorts an _Oh, please_. "But you were quite quick on your recovery during the night. Did you really believe I was her?" he says. He knows that at some point Greg must have come back to his sense, for he had jerked him off. Before that, though…

"_Sherlock_. Molly doesn't bloody call me Lestrade in bed."

He snorts. "Well, I can certainly not call you _Gregory_."

"Why not?! That's my name," Greg protests.

Sherlock settles his head against his chest, letting Greg's arm curl up around him. "Terribly unpiratey."

"It's a name. It's my name—"

"Greg the Farmer, not Greg the Horrendous Throat-Slitter."

"—and I'm a pirate, therefore my name is _piratey_ enough."

Sherlock smiles. "We should find you a nickname, then. I've heard the best pirates got one."

Greg sighs. "Terribly Old and Soft in the Middle Greg?"

Sherlock huffs, curling his arm around Greg's body. "I _like_ Soft in the Middle Greg. He has more brain than whatever other idiots are on this ship."

Greg hums.

"Something to do with your appearance, so people recognise you instantly," Sherlock muses. He lifts his head. "Oh! _Silver_ Greg!"

Greg's head falls to one side. "I kinda like that. Makes me sound experienced and all."

"It does, _Silver Greg_."

He lets his head go back to Greg's chest, and sighs. There's another long day before him, and the inevitability of five others before they reach Nassau's shores. Too much time to evade Dalton and his acolytes, not enough time to enjoy time spent freely at a few other men's side. Definitely not enough time to make Captain John Watson fuck him against the nearest surface from his pent-up frustration at not getting the subject of his desire. Not enough time to then let Captain John Watson lead him back to his cabin and let John pet him through the night and tell his crew to _back off, he's mine, he doesn't get to be anybody else's but mine_.

"You're thinking about John," Greg deduces.

"You're thinking about Molly."

"Yes, fine." A pause. "She told me she doesn't mind, you know? We've been together for a few months now — never thought I'd get her, she's young and wickedly clever, and beautiful at that, but I did. The morning I had to get back on the Fusilier, she told me, she told me that she wouldn't mind should I take a matelot, she would mind even less if it were a man. She knows about me, of course, but that…"

"Took you by surprise."

"To say the least."

Sherlock sighs again. "But you didn't want. You didn't want to until— yesterday night." Was it wrong of him to trick Greg out of his self-proclaimed loyalty?

"Old habits, I guess. I've always been freer with my men than I've been with women. And… it's serious, between her and I. I want to marry her. I want to raise a family with her. I want her to know I'm serious about it. I don't… fool around, not usually."

Ah, there. Sherlock distinguishes the outline of a previous heartbreak, of a woman committed to him that most likely had a string of lovers behind his back. Greg doesn't want to appear unjust towards his sweetheart, yet…

"She has agreed to this, though. And not unwillingly."

"I know," Greg sighs. "I— Sherlock, I don't regret what happened. And if… if you want it to happen again, you don't have to pretend, you know. I go for any type of body, really. If I'm with you, it's because I want _you_."

Sherlock hums. Another moment of silence passes between them.

"Why John?" Greg finally asks. "Is he… part of your scheme?"

He legitimately sounds concerned for his friend's well-being. "Not at all." Well, _maybe_. "It's just…" Sherlock stops, not knowing what to say next, how to phrase the words on the tip of his tongue.

He remembers the first time he saw Captain John Watson strolling around the streets in Nassau, coming back from a successful hunt. He had, like everybody else in town, heard a lot about the man, but never saw him before, most of his days being spent at Appledore.

He imagined the captain of the Fusilier as a mighty, terrifying man. Someone who held his crew with a hand of steel, but unlike many others, a man with a particular sense of justice and duty. A man, who, after all, had been a doctor in his past life.

But the man going down the street looked nothing like that, Sherlock thought, leaning from the brothel's window. The man's shoulders were sagged, there was the evidence of injury, and defeat, although not recent, was written all over his features. The man was a ghost.

John Watson _is_ a ghost.

He desperately wants to know who the man was before that. He got a glimpse of it on his first night and morning on the Fusilier, John Watson coming back to life, infused with emotions, feelings, _anger_ he didn't seem to have felt for a long time. The man is a mystery for Sherlock, a puzzle waiting to be arranged back into its former glory. But unlike a lot of men, Sherlock knows that sex doesn't solve every single problem. It is, though, a rather interesting place to start.

A knock on the door disrupt his thoughts. Ah. "Speaking of the devil," he says, a grin on his face, which makes Greg sigh.

He gets off from the cot, and instead of grabbing his own shirt, he takes Greg's who has been arranged on the back of his chair, and slips it over his head. It's slightly too big for him, coming over his thighs, the collar a dramatic v on his chest.

Sherlock unlocks, and opens, fractionally, the door to the cabin. "_Yes_?" he asks, and witnesses as Captain Watson's eyes grow wide.

Watson clears his throat and recovers quickly, although Sherlock notices how hard he tries to keep his eyes on his face, his fist bunched to the side of his thigh. "I'm searching for Lestrade. Is he in here?"

Sherlock quirks his eyebrows, and opens the door wider, revealing a naked Greg in his cot. "But of _course_."

This time, when Watson faces Greg, it's without any repressed feelings. _Been there, done that_, Sherlock concludes. This is getting interesting.

"It's Gregson, Lestrade," Watson says. "He's not getting any better, and I want to transfer him to the infirmary. The old arse doesn't want to hear anything about it, though," he adds with a tired smile. The three of them seem to be good friends, and the insult is without venom. "I need your help on that one."

"All right," Greg nods, getting out of bed, again nonplussed at being naked before his captain. He goes for his trousers, on the chair, and starts dressing him. "I'll be with you in a moment."

Watson nods, passing his tongue on his lips, before he throws a last look at Sherlock and closes the door behind him.

Greg chuckles, coming closer to Sherlock, gently taking the hem of his shirt between his fingers. "I need my shirt, Sherlock," he says, before pulling it over Sherlock's head. He presses a small kiss to Sherlock's shoulder. "One day you'll be successful at giving him an attack."

Sherlock smiles, not having moved since Watson disappeared. "That's rather the point. He's going to snap soon enough."

Greg rolls his eyes, finishing up the laces on his trousers. "Because you're so bloody irresistible."

"I try my best." Then: "The enemy of my enemy is my friend," Sherlock repeats, finally, the same words he had spoken to John. It's half-an-explanation to Greg's earlier question.

Greg sighs. "At least, anger is better than two years of nothing."

***

Sherlock gets back into his clothes — _Watson_'s clothes — as soon as Greg leaves his cabin. Outside, he can hear him and Watson debating over Gregson's state. When Sherlock finally peeks out of the cabin, he sees that both doors in front of him are open. To the left, closer to the captain's cabin, is Gregson's, where he hears the voices of the three men. The other, on his right, is the door to the infirmary. At least, it's not a long distance to travel an injured man.

Sherlock's eyes sweep down the hallway, towards the main deck, and distinguishes in the half-light a head of blondish curls, who disappears the moment he sets his eyes on it.

With a frown, he sets down the corridor in a quick walk, getting closer and closer to the sound of a single footstep, followed with the soft thud of a pegleg. The back of the young man appears in no time, as he tries to get away, without much success.

Sherlock grabs his wrist, twists it, and makes the man's back hit the closest wall.

"Can I help you with anything?" he growls.

The man — Étienne, he remembers now — blushes under his hold. "I— euh, I wasn't, euh, spying on anyone," he says, with a heavy French accent. His head thrown to the side, shameful. He's one of the youngest on the ship, from Sherlock's earlier analysis, or even _the_ youngest. He looks eighteen, maybe nineteen — a man, then, even though his face is not quite free of its childish roundness. His frail shoulders and wooden leg are deceitful.

"What were you doing then, around these parts of the ship?"

Étienne looks down. "I was, euh, searching for you." He looks up, emboldened. "I wish to purchase your services."

Sherlock gapes. It's evident from the way he holds himself that Étienne has no previous experience in the realm of sex. But then, what pirate has not lost his virginity to a whore? It's out of the question anyway: Sherlock abhors lack of experience.

"I— I don't have any money, euh, but I could… give you something? I don't know."

Sherlock rolls his eyes, and steps away from the man. "Scram," he says.

"I— _pardon_?"

"_Scram_," Sherlock repeats, with the wave of his hand. "I'm not running a charity for young virgins like you."

Étienne nods, eyes wet with tears, and makes himself scarce.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary of scene in italics: Sherlock is working as a prostitute/informant at Magnussen's service at Appledore, who is the governor of Nassau. Magnussen has multiple prostitutes at his service, including Reggie, a young man and Sherlock's protégé, who he sometimes have sex with. Sherlock comes back from Abbott, a man he was supposed to get information out of, without much luck. He hears Magnussen discussing with an unknown man about a transaction made with England, being seen over by someone nicknamed 'Dead Eye'. Just before they start engaging in sex, Magnussen asks Sherlock what he knows about Captain John Watson. 
> 
> Next chapter: Sherlock changes his mind, and there might be a bit of dirty talk in French. ;)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> French to English translation can be found in the end notes!

After seeing Étienne scramble away further down the deck, Sherlock turns his head around to spot Dalton and a few of his friends working up the masts. He takes a moment or two to raise his nose to the wind and enjoy the view of the deep blue sea in front of him.

Five days until they reach Nassau.

Five days is _nothing_ when one is not bored. Dear God. How is everybody on this ship not continually having sex? Especially with such a percentage of invert men and women? They're quickly ready at the opportunity to pay him for some — are they entirely unable to get it otherwise? It seems so for Étienne, but maybe Sherlock should not generalise.

Just like yesterday, a few heads, mostly interested ones this time, turn his way. The others who ignore him are accustomed to his presence, the novelty of it already fading away. On a ship like the Fusilier, there is always work to be done, it seems, and the men are relentless at their task. Maybe, just like yesterday, Sherlock will make himself useful by procuring pleasure in dark corners to the sweaty men who need a bit of a break, or maybe he'll sit down with the ones knotting the ropes and do actual physical labour.

But before that, lunch. His stomach is already painfully contracting on itself, and if he can go without a meal for days on land, the air at sea seems to give him constant hunger. Maybe he should factor in the fact that he has come more in the past three days than in the past year at Nassau, he thinks to himself with a smile.

He makes his way downstairs, to the main under-deck hall, where the sway of the ship is stronger. Again, a few men and women are at the table, and Mike is serving the usual meal. Here, in the dark underbelly of the Fusilier, tension seems to be higher as the crew eats in silence, minds preoccupied by work or… other matters.

Sherlock gets his bowl and Mike serves him with his usual beaming smile, before he sits down, at one end of the table. He looks around: Rojas and Oakes are sitting beside each other, but it seems like there is a physical wall separating them, the latter looking rather sheepish. Has he finally told his matelot of his preferences? Sherlock doubts so, for Rojas wouldn't oppose him too much. No, it's more likely that Oakes is distancing himself, still debating the question.

Beside him, Dimmock is eating his soup, glancing from time to time at Sherlock, who ignores him. The man obviously wants to continue what has been started on the first day, and is irritated at not having been chosen by Sherlock yet. Janine, on the other side of the table, is also pouring her thoughts into her soup, as she tries to make herself scarce. It's evident that she doesn't want to act in any other way with Sherlock than she does with her usual mates.

Sherlock sighs internally. The band of pirates around him is far from joyful, from their unsuccessful rescue down to their interpersonal relationships. He's not doing a very good job if everyone around him is still intensely frustrated, and certainly not respecting his end of the bargain to Captain Watson, whatever Watson's opinion about it is. No, he truly needs Watson operating his ship (and missions) after his return to Nassau, which won't be the case if the man is demoted by his crew.

Dear God. He's about to lose everything, isn't he? Lord M can't win this easily. Especially not when Sherlock only needs to put his deductive skills and his charms at work — and he has plenty of both.

Maybe… maybe he should suggest to the crew a bit of… collective fun, tonight. That seemed to work well on the first night: leaves everyone satisfied, and helps crewmates cement their relationships to one another without Sherlock having to intervene on every single one of them. Yes, that would be good. And definitely interesting for him as well.

He finally stands up, and goes to give his empty bowl to Mike, with a nod of his head as a _thank you_. He turns on his heels in order to go back to the deck, and nearly hits his chest to Janine's, who has been standing in his back.

"A word, Sherlock?"

He quirks his eyebrows and throws his hands up.

She worries her bottom lip between her teeth. "I've heard you're with Captain Watson? That true?"

"Not quite," he says. As much as he's an excellent liar, the truth always makes itself known in such a small and crowded place. "Lestrade got there first, but he doesn't mind sharing," he adds with a shrug.

"All right, good—"

"I don't do women, though."

It's her turn to eye him dubiously. "Really? Even the ones who pay well?"

"I don't have to worry about money," he says, thinking back to the sack of gold he's hidden under Greg's cot during the night, behind a piece of wood that he unstuck from the wall. No, he's got those kinds of treasures buried all around Nassau, should he need them, as he had done so in the past. "And it's not like I'm exactly out of choice, here."

He moves to leave her way, but she puts a hand on his chest. "I haven't even told you what I was thinking about," she adds, somewhat suggestively, her eyes piercing his.

"Leave him be," Mike intervenes, over his cauldrons. "He said he isn't interested in women," he adds, rather bitterly, his eyes shining a bit.

Sherlock doesn't have the time to consider those details: he wants to get away, since a line is forming behind Janine.

"What about your gal?" he says, an eyebrow quirking up. Sally (was that her name, Sally?) had enjoyed Sherlock's first night on the ship by indulging Janine, but had quickly changed her opinion about Sherlock when she had caught him on his knees, his mouth filled by Turner's cock, who was supposed to be partnering with her to get some sails undone. Since then, she made it clear that Sherlock was a needless distraction on the ship, a freak that Captain Watson should have left on the Valiant. And again, Watson's opinion had been undermined.

Maybe he should accord Janine this favour…

He cocks his head to the side, before shaking it. God, he's never had to, but he's not sure he can even _fake _it with a woman. No. If Sally enjoyed what happened two days ago in the main hall, it's only a better excuse to make it happen again, sooner than later.

"She's not _my_ gal, and she wouldn't be opposed to—"

"Of course she would. She abhors the sight of me and will entirely cut ties with you should you make further advances on me. Thread carefully," he snaps, before he moves away.

Just as he is about to job up the stairs again, Dimmock places a hand on his arm.

"_What?_" Sherlock barks.

"Jee, mate, don't be so—"

"I don't want your cock up my arse, Dimmock, desist."

"This isn't about me."

Sherlock frowns, and turns his head to consider the man. The features on his face are open, nearly vulnerable.

"What do you want?"

"It's— er, it's Étienne."

Sherlock sighs. That, again?

"Listen, mate, Étienne's a fine lad, all right? He's just— since he's had that accident with his leg, it took a toll on his confidence… He thinks he'll never get a gal for himself, and that kind of thing, if you see what I mean. I'd just like him to have fun, at least once, at least for his first, and not be judged or anything like that."

A pause.

"Maybe if you were with him… that would help him with some of his thoughts?"

"Yes, wonderful idea, have the boy fall in love with a whore, Dimmock, I'm sure that will solve all of his problems," Sherlock bites back, although it is without venom.

Dimmock looks down. "He's like… He's like a little brother to me. Please?"

Sherlock closes his eyes. He thinks of Reggie, red-haired and long-limbed, and how awkward he was at the beginning, never knowing how to position himself, what to say, what was acceptable or not, heart too full of puppy love for his eyes to contain.

God, Sherlock desperately hopes Reggie's all right, in all of this. But is anyone ever, at the hands of Magnussen? One day, Sherlock's going to have his head on a plate. And piss on it, for good fucking measure.

"I'm not a charity," Sherlock repeats.

A bag of coins presses against his palm, and with a sigh, he takes it. Étienne will probably blabber everything about everyone on the ship, and it's not like he would ever say no to this much information so easily obtained. "Fine."

"I owe you a favour, mate," Dimmock smiles, "a big one."

He takes his hand off Sherlock, who jogs up the stairs two by two. He has to find Étienne, now, and convince the lad back to his cot. It shouldn't be very hard.

***

It is not, in fact, hard at all.

After Sherlock has hidden the money in the same place back in Greg's cabin (Greg and Watson both being out on deck after transferring Gregson to the infirmary), Sherlock goes to find Étienne, fortunately not too far from the cabins.

It takes one suggestive smile, his hand around the lad's waist and a press of lips to his neck to have him gagging, and a minute later, they are nearly running down the cabin hallway. Happy happy couple about to have the time of their lives.

Sherlock is about to push the door to the infirmary when he reminds himself: Gregson's in there. He throws a look over his shoulder, at Greg's door, but equally doesn't want to go back to his cot with Étienne. It feels wrong to do his business there when Greg has let him in. And he's not the one he's actually trying to get jealous, here, although no one should be jealous of Étienne.

But, well, if Gregson's in the infirmary, then surely no one will be bunking at Gregson's?

"Sherlock, don't—" Étienne starts, just as Sherlock, with a grin, pushes the unlocked door open to Gregson's cabin.

He steps inside, relieved to see that Greg and Watson have transferred the fresh cot to the infirmary in this cabin. It was probably easier to take the man into the next cabin without having to get him up from his own cot. Which provides them with a set of nearly fresh sheet. Sherlock has his limits, after all, and he's pretty sure he wouldn't want to have sex in bloodied sheets for all the money in the world.

"Get inside," he says, tugging Étienne in, a sly smile on his face, as if they were two adolescents who had found a place to frolic out of their parent's range of awareness.

Étienne steps in, his footsteps marked again with the heaviness of his wooden leg.

Sherlock swiftly closes the door behind him and locks it, leaving them alone in the cabin, the air filled with what feels to be like insurmountable tension. The throws a look around. The room is less tidy than Greg's, the desk messy with papers, maps and journals. Under the cot, there are a few blood stains, but a lot less than what Sherlock might expect from an injured man. Then again, maybe Gregson developed a fever and an infection.

Sherlock wants to smile as he turns on himself. Étienne is so nervous he might explode, and they haven't started yet. He is just standing there, between the desk and the cot, holding one arm with his other hand, as if not trusting himself to move. Sherlock has been before with men for whom it was their first time (Reggie, of course, but he banishes that thought far away), and none of them had been glorious. Some of the men actually thought they were the best at what they were doing, and not minding Sherlock at all (quite difficult, mid-coitus, but they managed). Yet, it's evident that Étienne's problem is that he minds too much.

Shy boy, shy boy, Sherlock reflects. He isn't used to these.

He steps up behind him, he puts his chin against Étienne's shoulder, and gently takes Étienne's right hand from his left arm, linking their fingers together. He kisses his neck, and the lad trembles.

"_Doucement_," he says.

"You speak French?" Étienne gasps.

"Of course."

It has the result that Sherlock wanted: Étienne leans back against him, melting, tension leaving his muscles. Sherlock presses another kiss to his shoulder, his other hand tracing circles on Étienne's chest, over his shirt. He travels his hand downwards, until he presses his palm against the front of Étienne's trousers, to discover what must be quite a painful erection. This is not going to last very long.

Étienne gasps and bucks in his hand, and Sherlock removes it before the lad can get too excited. He turns him, in order to be face-to-face, which makes Étienne flush even more.

"What do you want?" he asks, returning his head to Étienne's shoulder, crowding him with his body.

"What—" Étienne starts.

"_Tout ce que tu veux_,_ rien que pour toi_," Sherlock whispers. "You just have to say."

"I'm not— _oh, je ne sais pas_."

Sherlock hums, and starts unlacing his shirt, before he gets it over his head and throws it on the floor. Clearly, he'll have to take control of the foreplay, or this won't go anywhere.

"Here," he says, as he places Étienne's hand on his chest.

He presses his nose to his neck, kisses him there again, travelling up towards his jaw, his ear, as Étienne starts breathing hard. Sherlock can feel the hand on him starting to move, to explore, as he can feel the barest presence of fingers against his nipple. He breathes out in Étienne's ear, as if he were the most experienced lover of all, discretely unlacing his trousers at the same time.

"_Juste, juste…_" Sherlock starts, before he takes Étienne's hand and pushes it downwards and in his trousers, making the lad's hand close around his soft cock, a dramatic gasp on his mouth as Étienne moans. "_Oui, comme ça, continue_," he encourages him, as Étienne mashes his bits in a rather awful way.

It nearly makes Sherlock smile. God, he remembers being a virgin himself, when he would lose his head around other men, at school and then at uni, back when he was too full with lust and come to think properly. He dreamed about that first time, he fantasised, he remembers his own, secretive, embarrassed nervousness as he chinned up and got himself that first man in uni. But sex didn't remain fun very long — and then, it became his job.

Making Étienne's thighs tremble, though, that is nearly as gratifying as it can get. Older men aren't as easily charmed.

Étienne, finally emboldened, pushes Sherlock's trousers down, before getting his own shirt off. "I want… I want to fuck you," he says.

Sherlock bites on his lower lip, and turns around, playing along. "I want that too."

He travels his hand back until it clasps on the back of Étienne's thigh, bringing their bodies one against the other, and rubs his arse against Étienne's erection. He knew, of course, what kind of specific act Étienne had in mind before he spoke out (he did want to get rid of his virginity, after all), and Sherlock had prepared beforehand in Greg's cabin.

Already too excited, nearly fucking the small Sherlock's back through his trousers, Étienne sticks his head over Sherlock shoulder and kisses his jaw, the corner of his mouth, until Sherlock turns his head a centimetre away.

"Not on the mouth," he says, and he can feel instant disappointment. Well, it's not like he can teach the kid everything. "_Non_," he breathes out, turning his head, cheek-to-cheek with Étienne. "_Pas sur la bouche, mais je veux bien que tu me baises._"

Étienne whimpers, and for a moment Sherlock believes he might have dirty-talked the boy into coming in his trousers. But when he turns around, hands on Étienne's chest, he notices the large stain of precum on the dark fabric, and nothing else.

Panting, he unlaces Étienne's trousers, and tries to push them down, until he's stopped mid-thigh by Étienne's wooden peg, attached over the fabric.

Étienne sucks a breath in, and Sherlock doesn't have to look up to deduce that he feels embarrassed. There's no reason to, not really, so Sherlock drops to his knees, pressing his nose against Étienne's groin, breathing in. "_Merde, je la veux, je la— putain, si je ne voulais pas autant que tu me la mettes, je te sucerais toute la nuit._"

In all fairness, it's a rather pretty cock. Long and curved in a way that could make Sherlock's toes curl — but that rather depends on the man on the other end of it.

For good measure, he takes it in his mouth — they could use a bit more of slick, even with Sherlock's preparation — and feels how Étienne's hand nearly rips his hair off his head, earlier embarrassment entirely forgotten.

He goes down on Étienne's cock once, twice, thrice, and it would be quite pleasant if it were only that — his own cock is now showing a bit of interest, but Étienne is clearly too close to climaxing for Sherlock to allow more of it.

Étienne gasps as Sherlock lets go, and stands back up, hands and mouth all over Étienne's chest, shoulder, neck. "_Tu me veux comment?_" he asks, pressing their forehead together.

Étienne looks down. "I'm not sure — this _putain de_ leg, I, euh—"

"Against the drawer, then," Sherlock grins. "We'll make a whole racket against the wall and everybody on this ship will know how good you'll have fucked me."

To illustrate just that, he goes to stand against the drawer, forearms resting over it. He arches his back and opens his legs. He's still leaking a bit from his previous fingering, and that must not have escaped Étienne's notice.

Étienne, who is still standing at the other side of the room.

Sherlock holds a sigh, and throws a salacious look over his shoulder. He travels his hand down his back. "_Allez, c'est facile. Surtout quand on en a une comme la tienne_," he says, angling his hand in order to push two fingers in his hole. This time, when he moans, it's real. "_Je la veux, s'il-te-plaît, je la veux tellement. Tu as promis de me baiser, oh— tu vas voir, c'est facile, je vais te montrer._"

The light in Étienne's eyes changes the exact moment he decides to step over to Sherlock, pressing his hips and cock to Sherlock's arse.

Sherlock takes his fingers out, leaving his hole empty and in desperate need for something to fill it. "_Vas-y, donne-la moi._"

It's there, right there — Sherlock can feel the slick head nudging his hole, before it pushes inside, a long stream of curse words rolling off Étienne's tongue. "_Oh— putain de merde de— putain, oh—_"

His hands catch unto Sherlock's hips as if holding on for dear life, and the next minutes are spent, well… Sherlock bites on his lower lip, resisting the urge to groan, as he's fucked by what could have as well been an overeager rabbit. Every cell in his body screams to stop Étienne, push him towards the bed and ride him, show him like it's_ supposed_ to be done, but… if Étienne has asked him to share the cabin it's most certainly not to be taught how to have sex, but to feel like a fucking god as he gets some for the first time.

Sherlock had to choose the _one_ job where he can't just tell people how bad they are at it.

At least it's over soon — Étienne comes and it seems to never end, shooting enough come up Sherlock's arse to repopulate the whole world should he desire to. The moment he's done, he vacillates on his feet, and Sherlock turns around, catching him at the last second.

He gently pushes Étienne's hair out of his face, and presses his lips to his forehead. The boy snuggles against him, and wiggles a hand between the both of them, a hand that lands on Sherlock's still-soft cock.

"Oh," Étienne sighs, "you didn't—"

"I don't always," Sherlock tells him with a sad smile. "Nothing to do with you…" _everything to do with you_, "it comes with the job, I'm afraid."

"Oh, right," Étienne says, and it's clear that he has just reminded himself that Sherlock isn't his lover but a _putain_.

"Let's get you in bed," Sherlock says, angling Étienne towards it.

He lays down first, and hold out an arm, a clear invitation.

Étienne looks at him, considering. "Can I — do you mind if I take the leg off?" he asks, sheepishly.

"Of course not."

Sherlock watches as Étienne sits down, his back on him, unclasps what sounds like leather bind and removes his leg, which he sets on the floor, before pulling his trousers completely off. Sherlock readjusts himself just as Étienne lies down beside him. Subtly, he takes a look at what remains of Étienne's thigh — the cut of it seems professional, a doctor's hand, and not something that has happened in battle.

"I was working on the docks, in Nassau. Making some money for _maman_ back home… It's a long story. A crate fell on my leg and… _c'est la vie_, I guess."

Sherlock hums, passing an arm around Étienne's shoulders. Just like he anticipated, the kid is going to talk no matter what Sherlock does or says.

"I thought I'd never get a job back. The first few months were horrible. I could send some money back home from what I had, euh… _économisé_, but soon enough it would run out. I thought I would have to beg on the streets before Captain Watson noticed me. I was doing some kind of job, transporting bags of grains, _je ne sais pas_, and then, I saw him, on the corner of the street. He was looking at me, just stood there until I finished my job. He said I looked hard-working, that he could use some men like me," he says, a smile on his face. "That's he's got a job that would pay better, and that I would never be bullied for my leg again should I join his crew. I took my chance, and did it."

"Very wise of you," Sherlock says, a smile on his face, as he caresses Étienne's arm, back-and-forth. "_Pas de regrets?_"

"_Non_. I like it here. Sometimes I know that some of the men are mean behind my back, but I have friends too. Dimmock will never let something bad happen to me. Can I touch you?" he adds, his palm on Sherlock's chest.

He wiggles forward, and chuckles (dear God). "Of course. I'm all yours." Étienne travels his hand on Sherlock's chest, who hums again, contemplative. "It does look like Dimmock has your back."

"He does. He can be very nice when he's on your side."

_What do you know about Captain Watson?_ the uninvited voice in his mind whispers to his ear. He nearly waves a hand to make it go away, but instead, looks down to his chest, where Étienne's hand is brushing over a nipple.

"And Captain Watson?" he asks. "Does he treat you right?"

"Oh yeah, he's… _brillant_," Étienne says, beaming. "Ever since that first day… I mean, he's not around a lot, but he makes sure that no one is bothering me.

"I can imagine that. Lestrade — I think it's how you pronounce it? — doesn't seem to be the type to let his crew gang up on you. And I haven't met Gregson, but…"

"Oh, Lestrade's all right. He's a just man. But Gregson… He's older. He's funny and he gets along with the men, I can see why Captain Watson is friends with him, but sometimes, when he stares at you…"

Étienne shivers, two of his fingers still pinching Sherlock's nipple. Clearly, the boy is as interested in men as he is in women, but there is always an undying fascination with breasts, isn't there? Not that Sherlock ever understood anything about it.

"Sorry. It's _stupide_ that he can scare me. But I never would give this up."

"You like what you're doing? Chasing after slave shipments?" Sherlock asks.

Étienne smiles. "_Oh oui_. I didn't really want to hurt people to take their gold but… To know that we're saving people, that I like a lot more. _Maman_ doesn't really know what I'm up to, but I'm not even ashamed of doing what we do. I think it's good. I think Captain Watson is a good man. They're all good men. They're trying to be tough and everything because we're pirates but they aren't like that all the time."

Sherlock's eyebrows rise on his face. "Really?"

"Don't tell anyone I told you, but I saw Dimmock getting in Gregson's cabin yesterday night. They know each other well, and Dimmock wanted to bring him soup from downstairs. That's nice, isn't it?"

Sherlock smiles, kissing the side of Étienne's head. "It is."

"And, euh— he did tell me I should ask you to… you know. I mean, that's what you're here for, right? It's just this damned leg… no one will ever want a cripple like me. I hate it," he says, and he's about to hit his injured thigh when Sherlock seizes his fist and kisses the back of it instead.

"_Non, Étienne, non_."

Étienne looks down, his cheek red.

"I like it," Sherlock whispers.

"You're saying that just to please me."

_If only you knew._ "_Mais bien sûr que non_… You _are_ a pirate, Étienne. Everyone back in Europe fears the deadly wooden-legged pirate."

"I'm not really deadly."

"You're even better," Sherlock insists, admiration written all over his voice. "You have saved lives. Countless lives. Anyone would be lucky to be with you. You still provide for your family, and you're lovely to talk to. And I can be the first to know how good you are in bed…" he whispers, his hand already gliding down to wrap itself around Étienne's already-hard cock.

"Oh," Étienne breathes out. "Really?"

"Of course. I'll remember you for a long time." Is he overzealous? He might have been with anyone but Étienne, for whom compliments seem to go directly to his cock. "How good you were, just now, I— oh," he gasps, pressing his body to him, before he slides down the bed, and takes Étienne's cock in his mouth again.

What the hell, Dimmock did pay well, and the boy could use a bit of self-confidence.

***

"Étienne?"

"Hmmm."

"When we get back to Nassau…"

"Yes?"

"Don't go to the whores."

"Why not? Now that I was with you… Oh, nobody else would want…"

"Listen to me. When you get back to Nassau, find yourself a nice gal."

"I wouldn't know…"

"Of course you do. You could walk up to her and tell her how pretty she is."

"I could never do it. She'll just stare at my leg."

"I'm going to give you special advice, then, something that never misses…"

"Oh?"

"You walk up to her and tell her that she looks like someone you would like to talk to for hours on end."

"Really?"

"Yes. You tell her that she looks like the cleverest gal around. That's she's pretty, of course, and nice, but that you'd like to know more about what she's doing. Let her talk. Let her tell you about what she likes and what she doesn't like, and she'll be sweet on you in no time."

"You think so?"

"I do. Try it out. Just… don't go to the whores. You'll like your gal better than anything they can offer you."

"If you say so… _Merci_, Sherlock. _Pour tout_."

***

Sherlock closes his eyes, pressing his nose against Étienne's hair, his arms curled up around the body lying down against him, heavy with sleep.

He needs to go back to his Mind Palace and reorganise everything he has heard — about Watson, about Lestrade, about Gregson and Dimmock. But to feel Étienne against him, like that, lax and trusting even in sleep, well…

He closes his eyes, and inhales.

_The hair against his nose is not light-brown but bright red, long freckled shoulders and arms thrown around him. Reggie is crying, crying harder even than on his first night here._

_"He… he told me I received a letter. My sister… she died. Oh— God, Lizzie!"_

_Sherlock had gathered him in his arms, throwing his covers over Reggie's dirtied body. He's been downstairs, he knows. No one ever goes downstairs and comes back unfazed. But for him, maybe. He's visited the dark cold rooms a few times already, never for long. He can make good use of his Mind Palace, then, and forget where he is, but in Reggie's case…_

_Sherlock holds him until the sobs give out to trembling, shivers running up and down Reggie's spine. "He sent me downstairs. I told him I didn't want to do it anymore, not when my sister's dead, but he said I can't leave— I— he sent me downstairs, oh!" Reggie gasps._

_Sherlock can't do anything but hold him. He's never been quite good with emotions, especially when they overflow in this way. He holds him through it, shushing him from time to time, not that the others would care, but still._

_Until Reggie crowds him with his body, his erection poking at Sherlock's thigh. God. He shouldn't, he really shouldn't with Reggie in this state, but Sherlock knows from experience that any amount of time downstairs makes one wish for a bit of human comfort. Again, not that he ever needed any. He's barely human after all. But he doesn't know how to respond to any of this but with sex. Is that wrong? Probably. He's never been one with a high moral standing in any case. _

_Reggie presses against him, his face blotched and redder than usual, still sniffing, a hand curled against Sherlock's shoulder. _

_"Reggie—" _

_"Please, oh, please… I just want to…"_

_"I'm going to get you out of here. Just give me a few days, all right? I have something to do first, someone to see, but when that's over I'm coming back and taking you out of here." _

_Reggie sniffs and nods, although without conviction. Sherlock closes his eyes. Irene owes him a favour. She will be able to help. It takes him another moment, but Sherlock finally slips his hand between them, where they're both hard and wanting. _

_Comfort, he thinks. Comfort, for the desperate. _

A knock makes him jump, as he realises he has fallen half-asleep in his reminiscence of the past. Reggie is still back at Appledore, not knowing where Sherlock has gone after Mycroft's minions had got his hands on him, and made him embark the Valiant against his own will.

Étienne raises his head. "What's going on?"

"It's Gregson," comes Lestrade's voice from the other side of the door. "He's dead."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Doucement \-- Softly  
Tout ce que tu veux, rien que pour toi. \-- All you want, only for you.  
Oh, je ne sais pas. \-- Oh, I don't know.  
Juste, juste… \-- Just, just...  
Oui, comme ça, continue. \-- Yes, like that, keep doing that.  
Non. Pas sur la bouche, mais je veux bien que tu me baises. \-- No. Not on the mouth, but I'd like you to fuck me.  
Merde, je la veux, je la— putain, si je ne voulais pas autant que tu me la mettes, je te sucerais toute la nuit. \-- Shit, I want it, I want- fuck, if I didn't want you to put it in my arse, I'd suck you off all night.  
Tu me veux comment? \-- How do you want me?  
Allez, c'est facile. Surtout quand on en a une comme la tienne. \-- Come on, it's easy. Especially when one's got [a cock] like yours.  
Je la veux, s'il-te-plaît, je la veux tellement. Tu as promis de me baiser, oh— tu vas voir, c'est facile, je vais te montrer. \-- I want it, please, I really want it. You promised to fucked me, oh-- you'll see, it's easy, I'll show you.  
Vas-y, donne-la moi. \-- Come on, give it to me.  
Pas de regrets? \-- No regrets?  
Non, Étienne, non. \-- No, Étienne, no.  
Mais bien sûr que non… \-- Of course not...  
Merci, Sherlock. Pour tout. \-- Thank you, Sherlock. For everything. 
> 
> (Dear God, writing French dirty talk will always feel strange, but I'll gladly do it for you all. ;) Also, I found a bit of code to put the translation directly in the text with a hover function, but I've been so busy these past days I haven't had the time to check how that's done, and I wanted you to get this chapter as soon as possible!)
> 
> Sorry, this wasn't probably the most sexy smut ever? :P I have to admit I found Étienne cute, in the end. Just spilling everything about everyone! :P We're finally entering the intrigue/case fic/adventure part of the fic, but I still promise good ol' smut in every chapter.
> 
> Next chapter: Two people need a bit of comfort after their friend's death. Fortunately, Sherlock is here. I'm taking bets on who will form our next threesome, but it shouldn't be too hard to find out. ;)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three for the price of one.

The floor creaks under his boots, as Sherlock approaches the cot. His fingers grasp the hem of the white sheet, and he carefully peals it from the body it covers, revealing a head, shoulders, a chest, legs. There's a scar on his cheek, just under his closed right eyelid.

Sherlock's gaze travels down the naked man, instantly noticing the two wounds on his flank. The first one bears the signs of infection, although nothing as virulent as Sherlock has seen in bodies taken by that sort of illness.

He frowns, and leans in. The other wound is cleaner and fresh, just above the first one, on the left flank. Two theories come to his mind, as to why Gregson has sustained two injuries, days apart, one of which must have happened in the last few hours. The first one, of course, is murder. Yet it's the second one that seems more plausible: from the wound's angle, it would have been awkward to plunge a blade in Gregson's side, especially when he's lying on his back, that side of his body closer to the wall. No, a murderer would have cut his throat or stabbed his chest _unless_ someone wanted to make it appear as a suicide.

With a huff, Sherlock covers the body once more. He turns on his heels, taking in his surroundings. He opens the drawer next to the cot, and distinguishes the shine of a few medical instruments. The type used to open bodies, cut limbs and retrieve bullets, although they are all clean.

On the single wooden chair, there's a sheet. Sherlock picks it up, and unsuccessfully tries to unfold it: it is glued together from the blood. A lot of blood.

Someone cleaned everything up. Watson, most likely. The man is a doctor after all, and most doctors like their surroundings clean. He wouldn't have liked his friend to be buried into a blood-soaked sheet, morals and all, not that the dead man would care much in Sherlock's opinion, being dead.

He folds the sheet back up, and places it exactly as he found it.

He exits the infirmary, not before throwing a look up and down the corridor.

It feels like this little visit has sprouted more question than it has answered.

***

The funeral takes place the same night. The crew stands on the deck, solemn, while Watson and Greg transport Gregson's covered body on a plank. Sherlock stands aside, both because he doesn't feel as if he belongs with those men, and because he would rather keep an eye on every single one of them. But even Dalton and his fellows seem to be in deep contemplation, heads heavy on their shoulders. On the first row of men, Dimmock seems equally disturbed. Sherlock remembers what Étienne told him about Dimmock and Gregson, being friends. From the general mood, it sure looks like the man will be missed.

His gaze pierces the back of Watson's head as Watson recites a few lines he barely hears, and with that, Watson and Greg lift the plank over the side of the ship, and down the body goes, until they all hear it drop in the water, heavy as a stone.

A pirate's worst fear is a funeral at sea, Sherlock knows. It shows on everyone's faces. Tonight might be a quiet night for most of the men, but for those whose sadness transforms into anger through liquor, Sherlock knows he will have to make himself scarce. Maybe Greg will be in need of comforting, he tells himself and smirks.

He has dinner downstairs first, awkwardly served by a red-eyed Stamford, and the silence between the few people who are eating at the table is even more ingrained tonight than ever before. The occasional soup-slurping is only disturbed by the rocking sound of a hammock. If no one's having fun tonight, at least some people are indulging in a bit of pleasure, he thinks, eyebrows raised. No one passes a comment on it, and soon enough, he's back upstairs, making his way towards Greg's cabin.

Except that Greg isn't there.

Sherlock sighs. He'd rather go to bed right now, but he can't exactly lock Greg out, and there isn't a chance in hell he's going to sleep with the door unlocked.

He closes the door behind him, and notices the light under Watson's door.

"—when he cut through the sail to get a good shot at that Spanish man-o-war?" Greg's voice rises, accompanied by Watson's laughter. "I thought he went fucking _mad_," Greg chuckles, and Sherlock's eyebrows shot up. He's never heard the man swear before, nor speak in such a manner.

Curious, he pushes the unlocked door open, to the sight of Watson and Greg sitting near the desk, in one corner of the cabin. There's an empty flask of rum at their feet, and it looks very much like they're going through their second one, passing it between them.

Old mates, reminiscing the past.

Watson's eyes shoot up, and his jaw clenches the moment he sees him. If a single gaze had enough anger to burn through clothes, Sherlock would be naked right now. Not that he would mind. Not that Watson would mind either, he estimates.

Greg looks over his shoulder. "Oh, Sherrlock," he says, slightly slurring the name. "Come on in, we've got rum for years."

"Maybe not at this rate," Watson remarks, with a smirk.

Well, what has he got to lose? Sherlock closes the door behind him, and steps up to Greg, who's sitting low on a crate. Sherlock picks the flask of rum, takes a swig, and sits down on the floor, between Greg's knees. Facing Watson. He smiles, contemplating the flask.

"You like it?" Greg asks.

"No, it's horrid," he says, still smiling, and both men laugh.

Greg's hand comes to rest on his shoulder, clapping it once, before squeezing it slightly. Both friendly and possessive, Sherlock notices, and that pleases him. Anything that might snap Watson out of his disdain for Sherlock pleases him.

He takes another swig, a longer one, before passing the bottle to Watson.

Their fingers brush. Sherlock cocks his head to the side, but Watson's attention is entirely on Greg, who is talking again.

"I'm telling you, we've never seen one like Gregson before and it'll be generations before there's another one. That man got himself a reputation."

"Do you remember the time we were rowing back to the Fusilier and he bloody killed that lurking shark?"

"Oh God—" Greg starts, and Watson and him spend the next hour or so recollecting memories about the fearsome Gregson. Most of the stories make Sherlock smile, sometimes laugh, even, as he drinks his fair share of rum and hums under the soft touch of Greg's fingers running through his hair.

He tries to stand up at some point, the sound of the conversation somehow far behind, as if in another room, but he falls back and rather awkwardly lands on Greg's lap. The ship wasn't swaying that much earlier tonight, was it? He fists his hand into the front of Greg's loosened shirt, and because he rather wants to, stops the man in his monologue by planting his lips on his moving mouth.

Greg gasps and hums at the same time, surprised, but kisses back, slow and deliberate, as if he was not interrupted a second ago. Sherlock tugs on Greg's lower lip, before slipping his tongue in his mouth. Greg tastes of rum and lust.

He waves his finger with the soft, grey hair at the back of Greg's head, his other hand descending Greg's chest, before he sticks two fingers underneath his belt and pulls towards him, a whine on his lips.

"_Fuck_," he hears, but neither him nor Greg has spoken.

He smiles under the kiss, and feels a third hand tug on his hair, not yanking, but with enough force to separate their lips. He barely has time to turn his head before his mouth is captured in another kiss, by another pair of lips, small and chapped and forceful in a way that _might_ be about making a claim. Sherlock's cock twitches in his trousers, because_ oh yes_, he wants to be claimed, he wants for the third man in the room to take him and make him his and show everyone around how he's the only one who can fuck him, touch him, kiss him, make him come, make him squirm, make him burn from his stubble and his beard, and kiss him but kiss him on the mouth like he does so well_ oh_ John Watson's mouth is a dangerous thing and Sherlock wants it all over himself—

Maybe _not _a single claim, because Greg Lestrade's fingers are outlining the hardness of Sherlock's cock through his trousers, and well, Greg Lestrade is not nearly as boring as anyone else, is he? He can be let in on the fun, Sherlock thinks, he would like that, if only John Watson could shake himself from his indecision and mark Sherlock as his.

Tonight will not be that night, Sherlock knows, and there aren't any rules yet about allowing a third man in bed, aren't there?

He slowly lets go of his hold around Greg's shoulders as John pulls him up, his lips never leaving Sherlock's._ Finally indulging in our little game, Captain? _Sherlock wants to say, but doesn't, for it would break the gentle way Watson— _John_ pulls him towards the bed, their hands tangling together.

John seems equally drunk, going backwards with his eyes closed, and falls on the bed when the back of his knees hit the wooden frame. The separation lasts half a second before Sherlock throws himself at him, climbing on the bed, climbing on John's lap, throwing his arms around his shoulders and finding that mouth again, before John changes his mind.

John hums, his hands caressing Sherlock's back, and they kiss, they kiss for what seems to be ages, and it has lost all of its previous intensity. It's slow, drunken, nearly sweet, until John tightens his arms around him and Sherlock can't help but rub his clothed erection against John's belly.

"My God," Greg says, somewhere behind, his hand coming in contact with Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock throws him a look, and lets Greg kiss the corner of his mouth, noticing that he took his shirt off, and that he's got a hand around his cock, jutting from his trousers.

"Greg," John rasp, and Sherlock doesn't bother to deduce what it means, but a second later, John has a vial in hand that wasn't there before.

Sherlock closes his eyes, letting John claim his mouth again, feeling Greg's lips on his shoulder, and sighs with contentment. He lets go of John for a second while Greg tugs his shirt up and over his head. At the same moment, John's small, precise fingers are unlacing the constricted front of Sherlock's trousers, the tug and pull of the laces making him harder by the second, a whimper on the edge of his half-opened, kiss-scorched mouth.

"No, you," John says, his deep-blue eyes intent on Sherlock, although his words are not for him.

Sherlock arches an eyebrow. _You're the captain_, he wants to say,_ it's only natural that your men defer to you the first bite of their meal._ If John had wanted to assert his dominance on Sherlock's first night on the ship, it's clear that he's comfortable enough with Greg, that he doesn't need to show off in front of his Second Mate.

The vial transfers from one hand to another somewhere behind Sherlock's back, just as John's hand seizes the hem of his trousers. Sherlock rises on his knees, arms still around John's shoulders, and lets him pull his trousers down his arse and thighs, milky-white in contrast to John's sun-kissed skin, to his own, now slightly tanned wrists and hands.

He doesn't sit back on his heels right away, but stays like that to feel Greg's hands on his arse, his fingers, longer, sturdier than John's, making their way between his cheeks. Sherlock whines, his face against the soft skin of John's neck, arches his back and thrusts backwards, trying to get Greg's finger where he wants them.

Greg is evidently too drunk to tease, and shuts Sherlock up by shoving two fingers up his hole. He seems to correct himself a second later, and when he moves his fingers again, it's sweet and slow.

A pull on Sherlock's hair makes him leave John's neck to find his lips again, and he can't hide the gasp of surprise when he feels John's hand wrapping around his cock.

Every thought hazy in his mind, he smiles to himself. Greg's fingers are working him in a rather lovely way — a man of experience, most certainly, nothing like Sherlock had before. The captain himself seems to be enthralled by pleasuring Sherlock, which pleases him to no end. He could have them both — and the whole crew with it — at his knees, he knows, but he has never desired power for himself. He only wants to be clever, to show off, and have a reliable cock to play with every night.

"That position is still open," he whispers to himself, and John frowns.

No one gets to ask question, because a moment later, Greg's dexterous fingers are replaced by the blunt head of his cock, teasing Sherlock's hole.

"John?" Greg asks.

"C'mon," John says, "fuck him."

Sherlock throws his head over his shoulder. "_Yes_, come on and fuck me."

Greg chuckles, but complies, and presses his cock in.

Sherlock gasps, tightening his hold on John, as Greg wraps an arm around his middle, his front coming in contact with Sherlock's back.

He starts to work him slowly, barely moving, making Sherlock half-ride him by holding his body through the tidal motion of his thrusts.

"Gorgeous," John whispers, his hand leaving Sherlock's cock to tug at his balls, before moving around his waist to feel where he and Greg are connected. "Gorgeous," he repeats, and Greg moans.

His finger is there, tracing circles around Sherlock's dilated hole, and presses in, a bit,_ just_ a bit, enough for the tip of his finger to wiggle inside. Sherlock gasps and catches the base of his own cock to refrain from coming on the spot, his mind overflowing with images of both men fucking him at the same time, of allowing two fat cocks to pleasure him.

"Maybe another time," John says, words slurring and voice so low Sherlock barely catches it.

He removes his finger, and Sherlock sighs, his forehead coming in contact with John's still-clothed shoulder. Ever so slowly, as Greg starts fucking him again in long, deep thrusts, Sherlock seizes the hem of John's shirt and pulls it up.

With the same kind of concentrated dedication, he starts unlacing John's trousers, without much success, from his drunkenness and the lack of balance brought by the cock in his arse.

John chuckles, and finally gets rid of his trousers, before coming back to sit on his heels. "What do you—"

Without letting him finish, Sherlock falls forward, face pressing to John's groin, inhaling the musky smell that was forbidden to him for _days_, oh, _his _cock, _his _sac, _his_ captain, unjustly taking away from him, that he has now, that has been granted back to him like a small miracle.

John grunts at the first touch of Sherlock's tongue, at the base of his shaft. The barest hint, just to make sure it still tastes the same, and oh, it _does_.

A hand in his hair. Pushing a bit. His nose against coarse, blondish hair. Pressing and pressing which each thrust that rolls through his body. His cock. His hand around _his_ cock. Pulling the foreskin up, feeling just like it felt days ago. Still his. Good. _Good_. Not the cock in his arse, but still good. The cock against his mouth. His mouth against the cock. His lips, gently wrapping around it, before the hand in his hair pulls him back.

Resist. He needs to resist. Whines at the sight of _his_ cock leaving his view. Barely registers the chuckle addressed at him.

Find his cock again. He must. Or else— all is lost.

John on his knees. _His_ cock is back. Oh, it's back, it's back, it's back, it's back! Smile. That's good. The man fucking him is good. But he wants cock in mouth. He wants _that_ cock in his mouth. Hand in hair pulls him towards _that _cock. Oh yes, oh yes, oh yes.

Another chuckle. He might be saying those words. Is he? _Thank you John Watson, thank you for your cock, may I have it in my mouth now, pretty please? You would make a man happy, you would make any man happy with your cock but it's a good thing it's already mine._

Head against lips. Hand steady in his hair. Opens his mouth.

Oh yes.

Oh yes.

Oh— oh— oh—

Warm and heavy on his tongue. Tastes the same. Feels the same. Will always. The man fucking him is impaling _that _cock in his throat. Butterfly effect. Cock in arse leads to cock in throat. Oh, happiness.

His own cock, not _his_ cock, but his cock, painfully erect between his thighs. Leaking, all over.

The cock in his arse redoubles its efforts. The cock in his throat is leaking, as well. Piercing him on both ends. Makes a man happy. Makes him very happy. Makes three men at the other end of three cocks happy as well.

Pounding. Pounding. Pounding.

Panting. (John)

Gasping. (Greg)

Whining. (His)

Pounding. Pounding. Pounding.

And then, above everything else, the sound of kissing.

It takes him a moment. He's not kissing anyone, he has _that_ cock in his mouth. Yet someone is kissing, and one cannot kiss alone. The link between his thoughts take a bit of time. Maybe from the alcohol, maybe from the pounding, maybe from the cock in his mouth, maybe from the kissing itself.

Oooh, he's making his men very happy, isn't he?

He wants to smile, but can't. Cock in his mouth. He swallows.

Three quick pulses. He swallows again. Same taste. Always. _His_.

Four pulses in his arse.

Pounding. Pounding. Pounding.

A thrust for each time he spills himself.

Untouched.

He falls on the bed, face forward. 

Happy happy happy.

***

Later, much later, or maybe not later at all, he's naked and sandwiched between two — also naked — men. One of his hands is naturally wrapped around a soft cock, John's soft cock, just like he likes, after coitus. Sherlock remembered that, even asleep. His other arm on Greg's torso, hand resting on his chest, near his shoulder.

His head is turned towards Greg. John can't have it _that_ easy.

The voices are heavy in his mind, and far away.

"Well, isn't this self-explanatory?" Greg muses. "He's got you by the cock, or so it seems."

John huffs. "And you? Dare I say by the heart?"

"Oh, fuck right off."

More chuckling, more warmth from both bodies closing in on him, and then, darkness.

***

The next time he wakes up, it's to the rocking of the bed.

He frowns, head buried in a pillow, because no one is currently on him, trying to have sex with him in any way. Not that he would mind. Some clients like it, and if he feels safe with them (and his brain always knows, even when sleeping), it's something he lets them do. More times than not he wakes up early on and only pretends to be sleeping, but tonight, whatever the fun is, he is too drunk and too tired to join.

Which makes him frown even more, because he vaguely remembers going to sleep between John and Greg, neither of which are by his sides now.

Yet, the sound that's coming from behind him, accompanied with faint panting, is distinct.

"Oh, fuck."

"Yeah, c'mon John."

Sherlock smiles, rubbing his face in his pillow. He was right, then. They clearly used to do that before. Well, his goal on the Fusilier is to reduce tension and make the crew happy, isn't it? This little reunion must count for something. And he's not jealous at all, he finds. He doesn't share easily, but Greg was there before him and can have a bit of his captain's attention for himself, after all this time. His own cock his soft, flopped on his thigh, entirely uninterested. He's got enough sex for the rest of his life.

"Oh yeah, like that, like that."

"Fuck, that's good."

"If you want to fuck me," Sherlock drawls out, and feels the rocking stop, "go ahead, but I'll be sleeping."

A pause. "I told you he would wake up," John says.

It's accusatory, but it only makes Greg chuckle. "Don't mind him."

Sherlock shrugs with his free shoulder, before closing his eyes again.

He listens to the sound of them pulling at their pricks, accompanied with heavy kissing. The men on the Fusilier really do not mind about showing affection, but then, maybe it's just them.

He remembers Greg's lips. John's. Oh. That wasn't supposed to happen.

The rocking of the bed gets stronger and stronger, the headboard banging against the wood of the ship, all of this accompanied by the soft rumble of the sea under them. Just like the tide, the wave swells between the two men, to the rhythm of their _ah, ah, ah, ah_s, until its crest plunges and shatters against the sand.

Awareness lost somewhere between sleep and consciousness, Sherlock hears the voices again, far, far away.

"That was…"

"Yeah, good."

"It's been a while."

"It has. Sorry about—"

"No, don't. Not your fault."

"What about… Molly?"

"Oh, that. Well, she knows… she knew about us. I told her, I mean. She also knows it's over, but she did say that… I could take a matelot. She wouldn't mind."

"You do, though."

"I do. Or… I thought I did. I missed this. With you."

"Yeah. It's good. We're good."

"What about him?"

"What do you mean?"

"He likes you, John."

"And he likes _you_."

"Maybe, but he likes you more."

"Are we really going to play this game, Greg?"

"No. No more games. Did you hear him, though?"

"Oh God. What a lightweight. Can't take a bit of rum. I don't know if that was hot, mad or hilarious."

"Maybe a bit of everything. Kiss me?"

"Yeah, all right."

***

When he wakes up, the sun is shining through the large windows, splaying squares of light on the white sheets. He registers the faint scratching of a quill on paper, and the proximity of an aroused, naked body against him.

"Sorry, did I wake you?" Greg whispers, his fingers combing through Sherlock's hair.

"No," Sherlock lies. "Not quite."

He blinks. His head is hurting like hell, and the sunshine doesn't help.

He raises his head from his pillow, and notices that they're in John's cabin. Slowly, what happened on the previous night comes back to him. His head follows the sound of the scratching noise until his gaze falls on John— Watson, sitting at his desk, his clothed back to them, silently writing something down. Giving them — well, _Sherlock_ — the cold shoulder.

Sherlock lets his head fall back onto the pillow, his lips to Greg's collarbone, pressing their fronts together. It takes him a moment, but he smiles.

"You're interested."

"You don't have to do anything about that."

Sherlock quirks an eyebrow up. "I remember I promised to make you come three times in a single night."

Greg sighs, his mouth curling up in a smile. "That wasn't a promise, but a dumb challenge you put upon yourself. Which doesn't make any sense, since you didn't make me come that second time, and it's now morning."

"Don't say that me being there didn't help things along with your… inclination for voyeurism."

Greg laughs, and pinches a roll of Sherlock's belly. "I don't have an inclination for voyeurism."

Sherlock's eyebrow rise on his face. "Right."

"I'll admit your bare arse is a pretty sight."

"I'm still wide open," Sherlock whispers to Greg's temple, although it's false. "And I want your cock again."

Greg licks his lips, his hands naturally coming to hold Sherlock's hips. "You're welcome to try," he says, and rolls on his back, bringing Sherlock over him.

_Oh yes, like that_. Sherlock straddles Greg's thighs and leans over the side of the bed to retrieve the vial of oil. He gathers a few drops on his hand, before wrapping it around Greg's cock, smearing the oil all over his shaft. Greg hisses a breath in, and Sherlock smiles.

Without waiting, he positions himself over Greg's cock, and lowers himself. His thighs are already burning — they did quite the acrobatics yesterday, he remembers — but there is no question about taking this slow.

He gasps and throws his head back as Greg's cock pierces him, and gently descends until the burn his somewhat tolerable. There is dried cum all over his arse, and he will need a bath the moment he steps out of the cabin — but none of that, for now, not when he's sitting on a gorgeous cock to play with.

"I'm going to ride you," he announces, chest heaving. He's already hard.

The scratching of the quill pauses for a second, before it picks up again.

Sherlock smiles. He throws his head back and starts to ride Greg, barely rising on his thighs at first, just working that length as far as it can go.

He bites on his lower lip, eyes intent on Greg. He desperately wants to look over his shoulder, to see if any of this has an effect on John, but doesn't.

"John?" Greg says instead, eyes on Sherlock, sparing him the humiliation. "You're missing all the fun."

"There's work to be done. But please, do go on, hope I'm not bothering you," he adds with a bit of venom, but there's also the shortness of breath that Sherlock can't help but associate with arousal.

He shrugs, rises on his thighs, and lets himself fall back on Greg's lap, earning him a gasp and the sound of skin against skin. _Slap_. He smiles, letting Greg's hands on his hip take a bit of control, and rides him in earnest.

It's been awhile since Sherlock had such power over his own pleasure, and he fucks himself onto Greg's cock like he likes best, hard, deep and steady, slowing down only when he feels he's about to come.

It doesn't take long before he feels heath spreading through his body, his hand wrapping around his own erection. He's just about to get there— _slap, slap, slap, slap_— when Greg's cock starts to soften— _slap, slap, slap, slap. _Sherlock groans, redoubles his tempo, squeezing his muscles around Greg's cock just to entice him a bit more, just until the end— _slap, slap, slap, slap_…

He stills and groans. "_Greg._"

Greg bites on his lower lip. Too taken by his own pleasure, Sherlock hadn't noticed the melancholy invading the man's eyes. This is not about him, then, but Gregson. "Sorry, Sherlock. Looks like today won't be the day. I did warn you, though."

Sherlock pinches his lips together, his hips thrusting a bit on their own in hope that… No, it's clear it won't come back.

He rises on his knees and lets Greg's soft cock slip from his arse.

"Come here," Greg says, his hands squeezing Sherlock's side.

"Where?"

"Up here. When's the last time a man sucked you off?"

His heart nearly skips a beat as he lunges forward, coming on his knees and hands, his waist over Greg's head. He doesn't ask if he's sure, he doesn't say anything but lowers himself until Greg's hand wraps around his cock.

Wetness around his cock. The distinctive warmth of a mouth and tongue.

Sherlock's thighs tremble. The last time anyone has done this to him, was Reggie — he doesn't even remember when, which only means it was a long time ago.

He gasps the moment he feels Greg's fingers entering him — Christ, he _does_ know how to please a man.

Panting, Sherlock's thrusts are shallow, not wanting to choke Greg too much, but it looks like there is no struggle at all. Between Greg's mouth and his hand, Sherlock doesn't know where he wants his attention to be, if he wants to push forward or backwards. Delightful dilemma. But it has been a long time since another man put his mouth on him, and so he concentrates on the tongue working the head of his cock, and forgets everything else.

His hand fists itself in the short strands of Greg's hair, and he barely resists sitting on his face as he feels his balls drawing tight to his body, his orgasm coiling in his lower belly. He tugs on Greg's hair, hoping Greg understands that he might want to get out of there if he doesn't want to swallow and awful lot of come. Greg only groans and keeps going at it, his fingers finding that sweet spot inside him, before Sherlock understands he wants to let him come in his mouth — and he does exactly that.

A minute or two later, when he comes back down, he's lying on his side, Greg wrapped up around him.

"I need a bath," Sherlock groans.

"You really do. Mike can set you up with that."

Too disgusted with himself to stay in that state for long, he stands and gets out of bed.

Instead of getting his clothes from the floor, he goes to Watson's drawers, opens them, and selects a clean set. He retrieves his boots, and take a moment to sit on the bed where Greg still is, to put them on.

Sherlock stands, and walks to the door. He shakes his head, a smile growing on his face, and changes course, going for the man at the desk.

It takes Watson by surprise when he puts his hand in his hair, steadying his head just enough to bend down and to press a kiss to the corner of the man's mouth. "Oh, Captain Watson," he whispers, only for him to hear. "What will it take? What will it take for you to fuck me, touch me, kiss me, make me come, make me squirm… make me burn?"

Watson doesn't move. He doesn't hit him, doesn't swear, doesn't push him away, although his knuckles are white and there is a dangerous smile spreading on his face. "Get the fuck out," he says.

Sherlock smiles, and opens the door.

At the same moment, the three men in the cabin turn their heads towards it, for they have all heard the same thing.

"Sails! Sails! English sails!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hot, mad or hilarious? I don't know myself. Drunk Sherlock is dramatic and obsessed with John's cock, even though I tried to pry him off it by slapping a newspaper on his head. He threw a hissy fit at me so I let go and followed him in the bizarre sentence rhythm you'll find in this chapter. Heh, what can I do?!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John's POV, a battle and some voyeurism. Also, this chapter contain a trans male character (Mike Stamford) who is shown here having sex with another (cis) male character.

John's fingers curl around the side of the ship, as he watches the white sails rising on the horizon. Greg is somewhere behind him, shoving his arms in his shirt, and Sherlock… well, he couldn't care less where that whore is now.

"English sails!" Sally cries once more, from up the mast.

"English?" Greg mutters, and John seizes the spyglass from Dimmock beside him.

He brings it to his eyes, and focuses on the sails that have just appeared. English, indeed, but smaller than the one they just pillaged and stole Sherlock from. They would not be coming this way, and John knows they haven't had the time yet to arrive to England to announce the news of their missing cargo.

"Yes, English," John says. "Not a slaver, though, it's coming directly from England."

"Not my—" Sherlock starts, and John shakes his head.

"Nobody knows you're missing yet. They couldn't have got the message."

He ignores Sherlock, who slowly exhales behind him.

_Sherlock's breath, against his thigh._

John looks through the lens once more, his head pounding. He shouldn't have had that much rum yesterday — he cannot always control himself when drunk. He shouldn't have given in Sherlock's game. He cannot afford losing, afford trusting someone that might hurt this whole operation in the long run, but he feels like he is doomed in any case. Doomed, from the start. From the first time he'd laid his eyes on Mary…

"Right," he says, "let's get out of the way, shall we?"

There is no time to lose before getting back to Nassau, where he'll be free of Sherlock, and will be able to grieve Gregson properly. This trip has been a disaster from the beginning, and he does not want to end it on one.

"Er, Captain," Greg says, and John rolls his eyes, knowing what is about to come. "The men would like to hunt. They are ready for some action after our previous… failures."

John wants to smile. Greg always talk to him in a different way out here than he does in bed, even though it has been years they have shared one. Years, before the previous night. John had been half-surprised to see that his desire for Sherlock extended to his old lover, that it hadn't entirely gone away after Mary's death. That he could still want. That he could still feel alive, in another's arms.

Sherlock wants to burn, but that itself is the problem, right? John burns everything and everyone he touches.

"We're not a hunting crew, Lestrade," John reminds him, coming back to more pressing matters. "Not one of that kind anyway."

It is Sherlock's turn to open his mouth, not that John wanted any of his advice in the first place. "But don't you see that—"

"_You_, shut up. I don't need any advice coming from someone like you."

"Someone like _me_?" Sherlock snaps. "Any idiot on this ship could tell you that you're facing a riot should you let this opportunity pass. I can't solve all of your problems, sex can't get you anything. Your men want gold and above all, a victory. No one wants to get back home defeated, _Captain_."

John opens his mouth, just to close it again. It makes perfect sense, of course, but he'd rather jump into the ocean beneath them than to admit it. And he doesn't trust Sherlock yet: what if it's all part of a bigger plan? Getting on that English boat to inform the Crown of John's doings against slaver ships in the Atlantic? What if getting caught had been part of it in the first place? What if Sherlock is here to create discord amongst his crew, to leave them weaker than they were, just to bring them down more easily?

"He's right, Captain," Greg whispers, "you know that he's right."

"I don't trust him," John says, ignoring Sherlock by their side. "I don't trust one bit of him on the deck with us when this happens."

A spark shines in Greg's eyes, when he finally says, "We don't _have_ to keep him on deck, Captain."

John barks out a laugh, half-covering Sherlock's, "What are you talking about?"

Not answering, he turns to his crew, his back to the ship appearing on the horizon. "Fine, let's vote. Who's in favour of a hunt?"

"Aye!" Unsurprisingly, all of his men and women throw a fist in the air, shouting in unison.

John shakes his head, a smile on his face. "Well, get ready, then!" he shouts to them, before he puts a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "Let's get you downstairs, shall we?"

***

Back on the deck, John is in a better mood than he had been in for the past few days. He feels like he's got his control back on his crew, and on his own brain. Thoughts of Sherlock are left far behind, below deck with him, tied to one of the wooden masts going through the kitchen.

He had put up a fight, at first, irritated at being treated this way, as Greg held him down and John tied his hand behind the piece of wood.

"I thought this is the kind of thing you enjoy," John had countered, a smile on his face.

"Fuck you," Sherlock had snapped. "I can undo these knots under two minutes."

"Good thing I'm leaving Mike behind to keep an eye on you, then."

Sherlock, not unlike a feral cat, had protested and squirmed, hissed, even, but they could hardly let him roam around during a hunt, not when he was a liability to the whole crew and to himself. Having an inexperienced man in the midst of a battle could turn bad for everyone, and he'd rather not have Sherlock made a prisoner again, or worse, killed. Or have him betray the entirety of the Fusilier's crew.

And there is no way Sherlock should stay below deck should him and Greg politely ask.

Now, on the deck, John is watching the ship through the spyglass. Sally, on his orders, had raised an English flag at one end of the Fusilier.

With Greg beside him, John is waiting for the opportune moment for them to raise the black.

It is quite strange to be doing this without Gregson, and for a moment, John lets his heart swell. After Mary, Gregson had found his end under John's care, and soon enough, it would be another one of his men, or even Greg… or Sherlock.

No, he couldn't let that happen.

Trevor, with his precise eye, stirs the Fusilier in the right direction, following John's orders. Soon, they're close enough to see the details of the English vessel. It is not a small ship, by all means, but John's crew has the benefit of the surprise. This is his favourite part: the silent, strained moments before he calls to raise the black. Too quickly or too late could be fatal.

"John," Greg presses him, forgetting to call him Captain.

"A moment," he grits out. They need to get closer. With an opponent composed of that many people, they need to make their first move at the last possible second.

"_John_."

"Raise the black! Raise the black!" John calls out.

With a sound of swooshing fabric, the black flag falls down and replaces the bright red and blue English colours. He can nearly hear the collective gasp of their opponent, but it's too late: they're already close, sides of both ships coming into contact.

John steps on the wooden banister, right hand around a rope, left hand curled around the handgun at his waist. "Surrender yourself now," he says, loudly enough for their captain to hear, "give us your gold, and we shall be on our way. No one will come to harm," he promises, against the grunts and groans of his own crew in his back.

"We do not want anyone to be hurt as well," the other captain, a man in his thirties, wearing the usual white wig, shouts back, a hand on his sword. "But we received news that you hold a captive of the Crown on board. Surrender him and we shall be out of your way!"

An icy shiver runs down John's spine. So they did have the time to contact other ships, or England herself, about Sherlock missing. What is it about him? Why does the Crown need him so? Is he… some kind of political spy? He did admit there is more to him than meets the eye, and John knows from the way he holds himself, from his accent, from the way he speaks, that Sherlock is not a simple peasant trying to find a better life in Nassau…

Still, there is no way in hell they're going to get to Sherlock. They'll have to kill him first.

"We do not have anyone on board but the usual crew," John shouts back, although it is evident that the answer does not please his opponent.

"Is that your last answer, Captain Watson?"

_He knows my name_, John thinks, but does not have the time to ponder how and why. "It is."

"Cannons, ready!" The captain yells and John's hand curls on his handgun. "Fire!"

"To the boards!" John shouts at the same time, and his crew springs forward.

Chaos explodes around him as cannon fire and dig through the Fusilier, shards of wood flying everywhere. John covers his eyes with an arm, firing with his other as English sailors reach for the boards as well, trying to climb upon the Fusilier.

The first bodies fall into the water, hard and fast as stones, before John seizes the ropes and swings himself across on the English vessel.

The moment his feet land, he swipes up his sword, coming into contact with a young Englishman he disarms with three quick moves. He needs to get to the captain, but that is easier said than done, in the mess that is becoming this battle. Another wave of shock hits through the ship, as the Fusilier's cannons fire. Keeping his balance, John advances through his men and women fighting for their lives, for their ship, for their glory, for _Sherlock_'s life.

Chest heaving, he disarms and wounds as he slowly keeps going forward, sometimes turning on himself to fight back a man crawling up on him.

Blood seeps down to his boots, through the cracks of the wooden deck. The ringing in his ears makes everything else feel distant, as his eyes settle on the captain, hand on his sword, still watching the fight evolve from one of the upper decks.

The moment it takes him to notice the man, there is a sailor engaging him with his sword, and John spins on his heels to fight him off, metal clashing and sending sparks down his arm. From the corner of his eye, he notices one of his younger lads, Étienne, struggling to keep his arm strong under the attack of an older sailor.

"Watch out!" John shouts, pulling the boy by the collar as a man jumps on him from behind. He plunges his own sword forward, between the ribs of the man, but in the split second it takes him to do so, a lash of pain goes through his right arm.

He spins on himself, and everything slows down: a sailor, not older than himself, raises his sword, and every single muscle in John's body sigh under the realisation that _this is bloody it_, there is no way to escape this one.

A crack whistles near John's ear, and the sailor flies backwards, before hitting the deck, already dead.

With a gasp, John turns on himself, trying to distinguish the source of the shot, which clearly came from his own ship. Before his eyes can settle on anything clear in the midst of the battle, a second crack shot echoes, and the captain falls as easily as a marionette which threads had been cut of.

John closes his eyes for a single second. _I can undo these knots under two minutes_. He'd like to think that he just hallucinated the pale blue eye at the end of the handgun, or the mess of dark curls barely visible from the line of the Fusilier, but he really can't.

"Well, fuck you too," he mumbles, before the world starts spinning around him again.

No time to ask questions; John springs forward, climbing the steps two by two until he reaches the upper deck, where the captain is lying down, still alive, a hand clutched on his sword, a pool of blood underneath his left shoulder.

John's throat closes on himself, as he remembers his own pain, his own helplessness. But there is no time for pity, not now.

"Surrender yourself," he says to the captain. "This isn't a deadly shot, and you can still make it out alive."

"Never," the man grits out.

Jaw clenched, John lowers his boot on the captain's shoulder. "Surrender _now_," he says, "or you'll die, and I'll make it long and painful."

The captain screams, as blood oozes out from his wound. "Stop! Stop!" he shouts, both to his men and to John, who lets go. The sound of the battle fades away, as the last few swords of the English sailors fall to the ground under their captain's orders. "The gold is below deck! Take it and let us go!"

John looks over his shoulder, where Greg, sword to his side and face marked with dirt, nods and shows a few of his men to the stairs.

John watches carefully as his crew gets the gold from below deck and unto the Fusilier, which takes a few minutes. They do not take any of the food: the crew will have enough to go with, to return home safely. Unlike some other pirates, John doesn't particularly like having death on his conscience. He began this because of Mary, and he has no other intent than saving people's lives instead of taking them.

When the transaction is complete and most of his crew is back on the Fusilier, John bends down and seizes the captain by his wig, nearly tugging it off his head.

"You'll never get to him. Tell that to your masters back in England. He's a free man and he's going to stay this way, I'll make sure of it."

He lets go of the captain, who gargles from the pain, his head hitting back the side of the deck.

Without a single word, John takes his time to go down the few stairs, seizes the rope, and jumps back unto the familiar deck of the Fusilier.

***

There is no surprise when John arrives down the stairs, in front of the kitchen's cabin door, to hear the rhythmical splashing of water. His men are somewhere above, splitting the gold and already feasting on their glorious victory, one that will hopefully maintain their good mood until they arrive back in Nassau.

With a sigh, John pushes the door, and his eyes land on the two naked men rather involved in a bath.

His arrival is unnoticed, and so, he bends his chin down and crosses his arms over his chest, leaning against the wall, wondering when they will understand that they're not alone anymore.

No, nothing about this surprises him, at least, from Sherlock's usual behaviour. What he did not plan was Mike derogating from his orders, though.

_Did you untie him in exchange for a good fucking?_ John wants to ask.

He stands there, and watches. Watches as the two men, red in the cheeks from the hot water, press against each other, Sherlock on top. Watches as Mike's hand nicely curls over Sherlock's cock, blurred under the water, ripples growing at the surface in time with his jerking. Watches as Sherlock's hand, somewhere he can't see, is bringing Mike evident pleasure, as he throws his head back and bites on his lips, trying not to moan too loud.

John knows about Mike, of course, he'd known when Mike brought it up as to why John shouldn't hire him. But as always, John hadn't cared. His crew is particular, but he likes it that way. Mike is a good lad, and he wouldn't have found work easily if John hadn't taken him on board. But John is quite impressed to know that Sherlock takes his men to bed indiscriminately. He's not exactly sure how Mike explained his own situation, but it does not seem to bother Sherlock at all. Maybe the whore is faking it, but he does look like he's enjoying himself, pent-up after a battle, _after holding a gun in his hand and shooting twice_, John thinks.

No. A good shot like that, Sherlock is certainly not what he seems.

Mike moans and writhes under Sherlock's ministrations, his hand abandoning Sherlock's cock to seize the side of the round bath, letting Sherlock rub on his body, somewhere above his hip.

He doesn't seem to mind Mike's generous chest, the body that usually belongs to women, and instead, fucks Mike like a man would fuck another man, because that's what Mike is, after all. Sherlock doesn't do women, but does Mike, and something in John's chest warms up at that simple thought.

Mike certainly seems to be enjoying himself, water rippling around him, splashing in and out of the bath like the tide as the rock back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, until Mike is shouting, and shouting, and shouting, and—

"Having fun, Captain?" Sherlock's low voice echoes in a deep rumble.

John realises he missed him climaxing, so silent he was.

Mike's head whips to the side and he slides down into the bath from mortification. "Of _fuck_."

"You certainly don't lose any time," John says.

"Not when there are so many fine men on a single ship."

Sherlock smiles at Mike and stands up, as always entirely unbothered by showing his naked body. Why should he? It's not like John hasn't seen it all before.

"Don't blame him," Sherlock whispers to John, shaking his head in Mike's direction, who's sheepishly standing up from the bath, as he comes to stand in front of him. Of course, between the two of them, John was not going to blame _Mike_. "I needed a bath."

"You should have stayed here," John says.

"He was after me, wasn't he? Their captain."

John's jaw clenches, eyes intent on Sherlock. "Nothing will happen to you. Not as long as you're on this ship."

Sherlock doesn't answer, but John can see doubt written on his face. Instead, he seizes Sherlock's arm, and travels his hand until he finds a shard of wood embedded in his skin, a smear of brownish red drying under it.

Tongue between his teeth, John takes out his dagger from his belt. "Don't move," he orders Sherlock, who stills, as John twists the very end of the blade under the bit of wood, and retrieves it in a single, precise movement. "Don't disobey me, ever again," he whispers to Sherlock, his hold on him momentarily strong.

"Are we playing, right now?" Sherlock answers, a smile on his face. He leans in, slightly, until their noses brush, but John puts a hand on his chest.

"Fuck right off," John says, without venom. "And don't do that ever again, you understand me?"

Sherlock shrugs, his lips thin, but doesn't say a word until the door closes behind him.

John sighs. "_Really_, Mike?" he tells his cook, who is quickly putting clothes on.

"I could ask you the same bloody question," Mike says, chuckling. "I don't mind, but dear God, warn a man before you indulge in a bit of watching."

***

Unlike himself, John's crew is the happiest it has been since they boarded the Fusilier, now days ago. He is still annoyed at changing his orders in order to please everybody else, when they had initially agreed that usual hunting isn't the Fusilier's primary mission. What annoys him more is how Sherlock, and by extent, Greg, had both argued against him.

_He_ knows he's right. _He_ knows this could have gone horribly wrong. If Sherlock hadn't been there, he would have died, along with many others. But Sherlock has been quite the problematic element from the start, hasn't he?

Unlike his promise, John doubts that Sherlock's presence on board is helping reduce tension amongst his men. Sometimes, John sees how Dalton watches Sherlock, from the corner of his eye, as if a bird of prey watching a quick, unknowing mouse. When that happens, John wants to go over to the man and snap his neck in two. Hopefully, Dalton has his impulses under control, and until they land back at Nassau and John can properly tell him to fuck off, he'll have to keep watching over him.

Most of his crew is now used to Sherlock's presence, and surprisingly, some of them seemed to admire him. From close, or afar. Jack Oakes and Rojas, Étienne, Dimmock, Mike and Janine all seem thankful for the whore's presence on board. Just like that, John can see where Sherlock has gone and for whom he has spread his legs, apart maybe for Janine — he's not sure Sherlock does women.

John shakes his head — those kinds of thoughts are not good at forgetting about Sherlock, but sleeping with him isn't either. But the night before truly had been a slip-up, which won't happen ever again. No, being with Sherlock would endanger himself and his whole crew. He can't risk entering spy games just for the benefit of having at hand an arse to fuck.

… But when had Sherlock been only that?

His fascination with the man extends over the most sexual aspects, after all, and—

No. He can't go there. He shouldn't even think about going there.

He rubs his hands to his face, watching the dark blue of the horizon in front of him. Being with John Watson is as close to a death wish one could have.

His mother.

Sholto.

Mary.

Gregson.

Countless people on his crew.

He, himself, when that bullet went through his shoulder.

He sometimes wishes that whatever instance there is above, it would have taken him on that day. But it seemed like God wanted for John Watson to stay on this Earth to watch everything burn around him.

Like Midas, unable to touch, without dooming.

He shakes his head, the echo of music coming from below deck. As always, after a successful hunt, John lets his men feast and have fun — sometimes, and that, without Sherlock's help, it turns into his crew seeking pleasure of the flesh between them, their unorthodox needs unifying them in those moments when they can be wholly themselves. He is glad this is a freedom he can give to his men, women, and those who do not correspond to either, but John also knows it is something he needs to stay away from.

Well, maybe not from the music itself, and he does need to eat before retiring to his rooms.

In the end, he walks down to below deck, one step at the time, the echo of the music growing stronger and stronger.

No one sees him arrive, and that is as well, so he leans against the nearest wall and crosses his arms over his chest, eyes on the joyous band of musicians between the table and the hammocks, the crew gathered around, drinking, talking, singing along.

Sally, as always, is tapping away on the box she's seated on, giving the rhythm to the mandolin, played by Rojas, and the fifa, sticking in Étienne's mouth as his fingers fly across the little holes in the wood of his instrument.

And suddenly, amongst them, Sherlock rises, a fiddle stuck between his cheek and his shoulder, and the crowd explodes with cheers. This is not the first song he's played, John's brain faintly registers, as his mouth hangs open.

Sherlock, is back to him, raises his bow, and after a single, collective breath, he draws the first notes of his instrument. The piece is somewhat classic, but melancholic, long, deep notes vibrating through John's body.

The rest of the crew watches in awe as the man plays and dances at the same time, with the same elegance, the same fluidity he has when his bare body is pressed to John's. Not sexual. Sensuous. As if those long, precise fingers, are drawing an orgasmic crescendo from the strings. As if making love to the music itself.

The man turns, making the whole circle around him see the magic he is performing. He turns, and turns, and turns, until he faces John — and then, the inevitable happens, really. Sherlock lifts his eyes, and locks gazes with John's.

And it's as if he's playing words, as if he's saying _this could be you and me, you know?_

And it's as if John, through his silence, answers, _I am three strings too short for you to play me this way_.

And the endless conversation continues.

_I'd be careful with you, though._

_You wouldn't be happy._

_I can be careful, I can play softly, I know how listen to the cricks and cracks of my instrument if need be_.

_ I'm off-key. The music would sound wrong._

_I'll play you off key, then, and we wouldn't sound wrong, at least not when together._

_ Please, don't._

_I'd make you sing. Let me try, let me just try and I will make you sing._

_Please, stop._

And just like that, Sherlock lets his bow fall to his side, the last note in clear contrast with the absolute silence that follows. It does not last, because the whole crew erupts into a thunder of clapping and shouting, Sherlock taking a bow here and there, smiling at his audience.

"Something more lively, now, shall we?" he says, with a look at the rest of the musicians, and they pick up some kind of sea shanty John does not have the heart to join in.

His eyes still on Sherlock, he barely registers the, "Hello, Cap'n," coming his way.

He turns his head as one of his men takes place beside him, leaning against the wall. "They're quite somethin', aren't they?"

John hums. The man is one of the newest of his crew — young too, maybe nineteen, or twenty, about Étienne's age. Blond and blue-eyed, the very definition of a cherub, not that John ever had an interest in that kind of man. Too young for him anyway — he'd prefer Trevor, he _had _— but Adam's been evidently angling at becoming the captain's cabin boy. And with his puppy eyes and charmin' American accent, John can guess Adam doesn't want the position to run his errands but rather to warm his bed at night.

"Though I don't understand that whore's appeal," Adam mumbles. "Who would want the last piece of a meal? I'm telling ya, I know his sort, he's probably rotting inside already — it will only be a matter of time."

"Adam," Johns sighs. "Fuck off, will you?"

Adam crosses his arms over his chest, a pout on his face. He looks like a bird whose feathers have just been ruffled, but he doesn't insist and moves away. Nothing he isn't used to, with that tongue in his mouth.

That interaction makes a few heard turn towards him, his men either surprised at seeing him down here, pleased, or displeased. John can see the shrug going through Trevor's shoulders, as he turns his attention back to the younger man he's talking with, leaning above him with clear intentions.

The music slowly dies down as only Rojas remains at the guitar, gently plucking at the chords in a soft but impetuous Spanish melody. The rest of the band dissolves below deck, and John watches as Étienne joins a few women in a corner, and Sally returns to Janine's side.

Sherlock hands back the fiddle to Dimmock, and without ceremony, drops on Greg's lap, seated at the table. The two men share a chuckle before Greg kisses the inside of Sherlock's wrist, the palm of his hand. Sherlock raises a suggestive eyebrow, and Greg answers with a smile.

John rubs at the back of his head with one hand. He wonders if Adam is right, even though he knows he seldom is. He doesn't care where Sherlock has been, yet there's a voice inside him that tells him maybe he _should_. He hadn't been jealous of Mary's past lovers, but it isn't exactly as if she had slept with half of Nassau, with half of his crew as well. Sherlock's value isn't diminished by that, in John's eyes, if anything, it makes him more experienced.

But what about illness? Sherlock doesn't look sick — quite far from that. John knows that a contact with certain whores in Nassau has been believed to render men unable to procreate, but it's not exactly as if he wants children, right? It hadn't been in Mary's plans either, because their descendants would be inevitably marked to a dark future, just like she had been. In her regained freedom, she couldn't have bared to see their children become slaves, and John neither. He would have rather died first.

He wished off women after Mary. Off sex at all, even, before Sherlock. And now that he has known the man, known that he has been closed with the man, to a point some people might even call the beginnings of intimacy, John's mind is full of hesitation.

He wants to. He wants so much, but he knows he can't.

Sherlock, the impatient man he is, has already found someone else. And if John thought he could have had a bit of fun on the side, without thinking too much about relationships, he now won't come close to Greg's lover. He wouldn't do that to his friend. He asked loyalty from Mary, and he remained loyal to her. Should he ever be with Sherlock, he would expect such loyalty from him, except that he knows the man wouldn't be able to give him that. Another reason to refuse. They are so, so incompatible, yet John feels like he won't be able to go much further without Sherlock by his side.

Sherlock brings fire to his blood, life to his bones, something he has not felt in a long time.

Maybe after this long, unsuccessful trip, John should retire altogether. He feels alive with Sherlock by his side, with Sherlock in his arms, but Sherlock will not wait for him. Sherlock is most probably a spy who will return to his master back in Nassau, and will inform him of everything he has learned about John Watson, and what a fool he has been to confide in the whore's arms.

Maybe once they return, John should take, alone, the Fusilier on her last voyage at sea. Let her feel the caressing waves of the transparent Caribbean waters, and just as he promised her years ago, take Mary's urn off the shelf of his cabin and let her ashes fall and spread into the sea. And then, maybe just then, John would join her too.

Maybe the carcass of the Fusilier, abandoned at sea, would be enough to haunt the slaver ships coming from Africa. Maybe he would become a story, him and his crew and his ship, a story that will chill the bones of any Englishman making money by _selling_ people. They would remember John, and his crew, and his ship, and the terror he has plunged them in for two years, and every single time they would set their eyes on the horizon, they would wonder if that cloud, far, far away, isn't the silhouette of a ghostly ship and his vengeful captain.

John smiles to himself. It would be so good, he thinks, to become a story. It seems like it would achieve more than he was ever able to.

He looks up, once more, and the smile slides off his face. Greg is talking with Trevor, both of them seated at the table, Sherlock in his lap and nearly sliding off it as the back of his head is propped against Greg's shoulder, contentment written on his face as he lazily follows the conversation. John frowns, before he notices Greg's hand disappearing between the flaps of Sherlock's unbuttoned trousers (_his_ trousers), distractedly massaging Sherlock's cock and balls as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

They're not the only ones either. From the swinging of some hammocks, to the bodies pressed against one corner of the wall, John can see that the party has just begun. Not surprising after finding so much gold in a single day, but he's not quite accustomed to these obvious displays.

John throat dries in a single instant as he sees Sherlock bucking his hips forward, sliding further down against Greg's body.

Trevor frowns, before turning his head, and his gaze lands directly on John, who doesn't have the time to look away.

Trevor's lips break into a smile. "Captain's watching," he says, loud enough for John, and a few others around him, to hear. Both Greg and Sherlock turn their heads towards him, and Greg's hand stills. Sherlock groans and bucks forward, as he brings his hand over Greg's, pressing it against his flesh once more.

"You knew that," Greg says to Sherlock.

"Oh, come on, Greg," Sherlock whines. "Don't stop _now_."

"No. I'm tired and I don't want to play that game tonight." He lets go of Sherlock, wiggles under him, and stands up.

"C'mon Lestrade," Trevor says. "Don't fear the good ol' captain. He never visits on feast nights — he's frigid, everyone knows that."

Silence falls in the room as quickly as a stone in the sea. Rojas leaves the guitar aside, and John is pretty sure every head has turned towards them.

Sherlock snorts. "I'm pretty sure Watson was nothing but frigid when he had his cock in my arse that first day."

Lestrade sighs, and breaks the deep silence the room is plunged in by ascending the stairs one by one. Sherlock, left behind on his seat, trousers still open, a dark cloud of hair coming out of them, crosses his arms over his chest.

"Oh, sure," Trevor sneers, "it works once every two years, that's great. The truth still is that we have a captain who can't make it out of a battle without a bit of exterior help, and who won't even get himself a cabin boy. That's not a captain I want to follow on a hunt."

"Only an imbecile would follow a captain for his cock. Or someone lusting after it," Sherlock says. "But I can offer you a good alternative, Trevor: leave Watson alone and fuck me yourself. Lestrade's no fun tonight."

John jumps forward and slams his fist on the table. "I. Do. Not. Need. Your. _Bloody_. Protection," he grits out. Where there had been a few sneers and giggles, his crew shuts up altogether. "Do _not _move," he orders Trevor, who was going for Sherlock. "Sit the fuck down and do _not_ move."

Sherlock's Adam's apple bobs up and down as he leans back on his chair and stares at John. God, John thinks, he doesn't need the whore's help, he doesn't need anybody's help for managing his crew. He's done so for the past two years on his own and is quite bloody good at it, thank you very much.

Jaw clenched, a slight smile on his face, John leans back, his hands sliding the table. "Adam. Lose those trousers."

A collective shiver runs through the room, but Adam materialises beside him out of nowhere, placing an oil vial in his hand.

With a grunt, John pushes Adam's chest until it hits the table, and works his trousers down around his thighs. The boy's arse is milky white and his hole is probably virgin tight, although John is convinced he has fooled around before. No guilt here. He won't be the first and it's clear Adam is gagging for it.

If they so desperately want a second spectacle from their captain, John has no qualms about showing them. Frigid, for God's sake, of all things. _Frigid_.

He presses two oiled-up fingers in the cleft of Adam's arse, travelling them up and down just to tease a bit, before stopping over the bumpy texture of his small, pink hole. He presses in, not too slow but not roughly either, and Adam shoves himself forward with a moan.

Dear God above, that boy is dramatic.

All eyes are on him, he knows, and when he lifts his head, it's to witness the blue of Sherlock's eyes following the tidal movement of his fingers, fucking in and out of Adam's arse.

When Adam feels prepared enough, John smears his fingers on the back of his shirt, before moving his hand to his trousers, opening his belt in a swift movement and unlacing the front of them.

"Frigid," he mumbles, as his cock springs out, fat and shining at the tip. "My arse."

Eyes not leaving Sherlock, his gaze detailing the soft curve of his half-opened lips, the tremors in his shoulders as he breathes unequally, the visibly outline of an erection forming again against half-opened trousers, John raises his chin, and presses inside the arse offered to him.

Adam shivers and moans, a few hisses here and there echo around the room, but Sherlock is perfectly silent, perfectly still. A hand on Adam's hip, John pulls out, and slams his cock forward once more.

With each thrust, he drives the table forward. The unpleasant thud of wood screeching over wood, and Adam's needy breaths and whimpers are the only sounds breaking the heavy silence of the cabin.

John barely takes pleasure in the act itself: Adam is warm and delightfully tight, but John doesn't like him, he never has. Instead, he keeps his gaze unto Sherlock, who stares back, unwavering, until the side of the table moves enough to press to Sherlock's chest.

Still, Sherlock doesn't move back. Doesn't look away.

John watches as the table presses upwards against Sherlock's chest, in rhythm with his fucking, and imagines the line of bruises that will probably appear in a few hours. He could back up, grab Adam's needy arse and fuck him against the wall instead, but Sherlock could move too, if he wanted to. If it hurt too much.

He doesn't.

John's hands slip on Adam's waist as they both grow slick from sweating. His pace and intensity haven’t faltered: should the musicians start playing again, John's thrust could serve as a metronome.

Under him, Adam squirms and moans.

"Is— that— enough— of— a— show— for— you—," John bites out, momentarily leaving Sherlock's eyes to glance at Trevor, who has one shoulder back and his chin lifted, as if not entirely convinced, but also somewhat disturbed by the display of dominance in front of him. John can see it in his eyes. God. And to say he would have been ready to take him, to fuck him, to keep Trevor in his bed — he never should have imagined that about such a prick. But clearly, John is good at attracting these.

He grunts, his lower belly growing hot. His eyes travel back to Sherlock, Sherlock who is watching him, face blank but for his half-opened mouth, watching him fuck Adam on that table just like he fucked him barely days ago.

He barely notices when Adam starts making a racket of noise, blissed out, John hitting his sweet spot without even trying too, and Adam _sobs _as his hole starts contracting around John, in four quick flutters making John's ball draw tighter to his body.

Slipping from the table, John catches Adam and lifts his chest back up against the wood. He groans: it's better like that, when Adam's spine and body are lax, John can work his cock further into him, and relax himself into it.

He leans over Adam as thrusts forward, eyes still on Sherlock.

_I could have anybody_, he wants to say._ I just need to say the word and this whole crew would be ready to share my bed._

_Watch me_, he wants to say. _Watch me fuck him well. I know you'd give anything for you to be in his place. I can have anyone. I don't need you. I don't need you. _

_I don't—_

—_need you. _

"Ah, fuck!" _Sherlock_, he nearly lets out, as he buries himself deep and comes, chest heaving, mouth open.

He pulls out, and glances down for the first time to witness his cock spilling over Adam's arse, once, twice. Still breathing hard, he grabs the boy by the shoulder and makes him turn around.

"There," he says, waving his hand at Adam's arse, oozing with come. "If he was a virgin before, he's not anymore."

"I wasn't," Adam mumbles, crossing his arms over his chest, but John is already backing away.

"You've done a good job today," John tells his crew, as he stuffs himself back in his trousers. "No duties tonight," he announces, and most of his crew cheer at the good news. "Have fun."

On that, he goes up the stairs, two by two, wanting to escape the condensed atmosphere of below deck.

He hears footsteps in his back — Adam, most likely, trying to catch up with him — but he advances fast in the darkness of the upper corridor and enters at once his own cabin. He leans his back against the door, and his head falls against the wood with a thud.

How long will he have to keep playing those games, just to show that he's worthy of being captain?

Does it not matter that he got his crew through hard times? That he gave them a place to be when half of Nassau was on their backs? That they're doing something good? Maybe not something that brings a lot of money, but something morally _good_.

No, they don't care about that. They want to have gold and rum and whores, and tonight they have all three. They don't need him downstairs with them.

John rubs his hands over his face, and that's when he hears it.

Two pairs of feet walking down the corridor.

"Adam," Sherlock's voice echoes in the silence. "_Adam_. Is that your name? Adam!"

"What the hell do you want?"

A pause.

"He won't let you in. You're wasting your time."

"Oh, and you know him that well?"

"Yes, I do."

_Yes, he does_, John thinks, rolling around to press his forehead to the wood.

"And I promise you that if he's run off like that it's because he doesn't want anyone with him right now." _Well, not quite_.

John imagines too well Adam's pout, hearing those words.

"I can make it worthwhile, though, you having come up all this way."

"Right. How, exactly?"

Another pause. "Let me fuck you," Sherlock whispers.

John closes his eyes, a moan on the tips of his tongue. He imagines it too well, Sherlock leaning over the boy, tall and seductive, the outline of his erection pressed to his trousers. It must be painful, now, he's had it for so long.

"I'm sorry, _what_?" Adam hisses.

"I want— I _need_ to fuck you. I—" for the first time, John hears Sherlock scrambling for his words. "I can pay you."

"You're a whore and you want to pay _me_?"

"If you want to. I'll make it good for you," Sherlock says, sounding a bit desperate. "Let me fuck you and I swear I'll make it good— I'll suck you off, after it. You've never had that, before, right? I'll do it, I'll let you come down my throat. Just—"

"All right, all right. Here?"

No answer. Instead, John hears some shuffling, a belt unbuckling and fabric being pushed down. The scraping of boots on wood. Two soft thuds — forearms, most likely, coming in contact with the wood.

A moan — Sherlock's, surprisingly — and then, the gentle, first slap of a hips-to-arse contact.

John crunches his eyes, trying to bring himself to get the image of their coupling perfect in his mind. Sherlock, tall and lean, his body wrapped around Adam's, who's searching for purchase in the wall in front of him, his bum sticking out, his small, pink cock probably hard again.

But it's Sherlock whom John imagines. Sherlock who's pressing his cock deep inside where John has just been. Sherlock who's fucking up an arse slick with John's come. Sherlock's who's buried in the same warmth John was, minutes ago.

A litany of _yes, yes, yes, yes_, flows to John's ears, each of them punctuated with a shiver running down his spine.

Sherlock is fucking Adam just because John has been there before, John knows. He wants to be close, and this is how he can be close to him tonight. John could step out of his cabin. John _could_ step out of his cabin, put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder, and tell him to leave the boy. Tell him to leave the boy and follow him back to his bed, and make love all night, just like the night before, except it's just them and no games at all. All facades are down, all games are lost. Neither of them is pretending not to care anymore, and John wonders, he wonders if Sherlock knows he's just on the other side of the door, listening to their interlaced panting, to the occasional moan escaping either lips, to the sound of curved flesh rippling against a man's desperate bucking, to fingernails scraping the wood, to the very distinct sound of a cock being pulled at—

Throaty whines, _ah_—_ ah_— _ah_— and Sherlock comes, slamming the front of his partner against the wood a few times— _bang_— _bang_— _bang_—

And John sees, John _sees_ as Sherlock's come mixes with his own, deep in Adam's arse, as their come mixes and _sliiiiiiiiiiides_ down Adam's thighs, before it _drips— drips— drips—_ to the floor.

John pants, nose pressed against the door. He can nearly _smell _the sex radiating off them, the sweat and the come and the desperate need to be together. Except that Sherlock doesn't want Adam. That none of this is _about_ Adam.

John's mouth finally breaks into a smile as he hears to knees hitting the ground, followed by a clear, distinct sucking sound. Adam shouts, the unexperienced boy he is, and John imagines him with a hand in Sherlock's hair, tugging and tugging as Sherlock sucks him off.

Adam won't last long, John knows, but he listens still, listens to the _suck_… _suck_… _suck_… and the occasional _slurp! _as Sherlock works his ungodly lips on Adam's small prick.

Adam starts making noise again, just like before, as if putting up a fight against his own orgasm, probably feeling too inappropriate about coming so soon, but he's a young man and such things are only natural, and Sherlock hums and sucks and hums and suck and swallows, swallows, swallows as Adam writhes and cries.

Footsteps, again. Adam walks down the corridor, the other way around, and John imagines him too well, ruffled little bird that he must look like.

Sherlock is still there, John knows. He must.

The wood creaks.

The barest sound of a brushing hand against the back of the cabin door.

John crunches his eyes. He knows Sherlock is on the other side, maybe resting his forehead against the door, just like him. He can hear his breath, quick but faint, the rasp at the back of his throat.

Biting on his lower lip, John goes for the door knob. He can let Sherlock in. He can let Sherlock in his cabin and in his arms, in his bed. He will hold him and press kisses to his face, fuck him good when he needs to.

But Sherlock doesn't want that. Sherlock wants to play games and sleep with everyone around. He will never be content with John. John is only a means to get information. Sherlock is a whore. First, and foremost. And whore always equals spy.

John lets his hand fall away from the knob.

A minute later, and Sherlock doesn't press, his breath vanishing from the cracks in the wood.

A door opens and closes. Greg's cabin. Sherlock in Greg's arms. In his bed. In his rightful place.

This way, no one will get hurt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do hope you're still enjoying this! :D I promise we're getting some Johnlock very soon!


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